Rivers of the Deep
by glitterally
Summary: "With knowledge, there is always hope," the woman contended in a tone that brooked no argument; despite her brave countenance, her eyes were bright with tears. "And right now that's all we have. Now what news of Hermione do you have for us today?" The war is over, but the battle continues: choice vs. duty. Hermione struggles to remain afloat as Draco seeks a safe port.
1. Chapter 1 : Prologue

**Hello, friends both old and new! Thank you for checking out my latest creative endeavor. As you can see, while I've been gone I haven't been idle. In fact, I snuggled quite a few plot bunnies before choosing this particular one as my pet. Rivers of the Deep is co-written with my fantastic alpha CoquetteKitten. It will be updated each Sunday - beginning this Sunday!**

**A very Happy Valentine's Day to all our fellow fanfic lovers; **

**please consider this our box of [dark, slightly bitter] chocolates to each and every one of you. Mwah.**

**JKR owns HP; we're just playing in her sandbox.**

**The song we chose as a sort of theme for this fic: Riverside by Agnes Obel.**

_The Old Vicarage_

_Thompson's Lane_

_Cambridge_

Twilight was just creeping its way along the River Cam that evening, and the last peals of St. Clement's bells still hung in the air when one of the twin fireplaces roared to life with a burst of green flames in the house behind the church.

"Is that you, darling?" a woman called up the staircase. "I'm just burning dinner now!" As if to prove the statement true, there followed a clamor of pots and pans and then a string of words vulgar enough to make a sailor pause in admiration.

On the other end of the open Floo an elderly witch repressed a smile. "It's Professor McGonagall!" she bellowed with the aid of a Sonorus.

The commotion in the kitchen on the floor below ceased, and shortly after a woman raced up the stairs. She wore an apron over her smart trouser suit and was wiping her hands on a tea cloth, and if she was surprised at the unexpected Floo call, she hid the fact well. "Good evening, Headmistress!" she exclaimed. "Please come through!"

"I'm afraid I haven't the time for a visit tonight, which is a shame; I've grown particularly fond of your husband's shortbread." Professor McGonagall looked around the cozy room with a frown. "I don't suppose he's home?"

"He took the dog for a walk before dinner." The woman slowly sank to her knees on the hearth. "It's always a pleasure to hear from you, Headmistress, but- "

"Nonsense," interrupted the professor. "My updates bring you nothing but heartache! If I wasn't committed to helping cure the cause of that, I'd leave you well enough alone."

"They bring us knowledge," argued the woman. "And without that, where would we be?"

"Back in Australia, no doubt," sniffed the professor. The woman snickered, and the sound brought back a memory from what seemed a lifetime ago: a wild-haired young girl dressed in a familiar school uniform and carrying a bookbag threatening to burst at the seams – a girl who bore a startling resemblance to the woman before her, save for the hair.

"With knowledge there is always hope," The woman contended in a tone that brooked no argument, but despite her brave countenance, her eyes were bright with tears. "And right now that's all we have. Now what news of Hermione do you have for us today?"

**See you this Sunday! **

**Love, -G-**

**p.s. for teasers, go to BespokeAffinity on Twitter or bespokeaffinity on Tumblr**


	2. Chapter 2: Bad News

**Kisses to Sweet Trufflepuff and G the Headmaster, both of whom I've missed terribly. Love you both far too much for polite society! And thank you so much for all the encouragement from every single one of you, dear readers. My gawd, people! You're far too kind.**

**Special thanks to CoquetteKitten for all her work as alpha-beta-gamma-theta ;) (and for manning the social media desk).**

**JKR owns HP; we're just playing in her sandbox.**

**The song we chose as a sort of theme for this fic: Riverside by Agnes Obel.**

_Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Unplottable location, Scotland_

She was bunking off again, this time behind a large outcropping of stone by the Great Lake, hunkered down on the rain-damp rock in a weak ray of Scottish sunlight. A brisk spring breeze blew through the bluebells at her feet and the pages of the large tome cradled in her arms, and every so often she smoothed down the ruffled pages and spat out a mouthful of windblown hair.

There was no shortage of such quiet nooks at Hogwarts, but this particular one was a good distance from the castle and, therefore, a favorite of hers. Unfortunately, the best hideaways weren't all that secret. Footsteps crunched along the gravel path, interrupting her solitude. "Go away," she ordered in a flat tone.

"You missed Reconciliation," said the interloper. He didn't need to add _again_. "She sent me to find you."

"Oops." She didn't bother to lift her eyes from the page or try to hide her smirk. "I lost track of time."

"Actually, she hasn't yet begun – we're waiting for you."

"Oh, for Godric's sake." Hermione slammed the book shut and stood, hefting it with some effort. "If it's another large-group activity where we're asked to regurgitate our feelings . . ."

That was often the case, and just as often she 'missed' the class called Reconciliation – the one prescribed by the Ministry as treatment for the internal wounds of the Second Wizarding War in its youngest generations. It was the one part of the school day that nearly every eighth year student dreaded, and it was _compulsory_.

"She said to assure you it's not."

She rounded the outcropping to find him standing there, hands in his trouser pockets, regarding her warily. To the casual observer, they could have been friends. "It had _better_ not be."

He beckoned toward the castle with a jerk of his head, and the two began the trek back. "I apologize for disturbing you."

"Apology accepted," she said automatically. "If you feel the need to make amends, you may carry this for me." But they weren't friends. She swung the book sideways without warning, catching him in the gut.

"_Oof_." He doubled over momentarily.

Hermione was unable to keep the satisfaction from her tone. "Sorry, Malfoy." Not friends.

"Apology accepted," he managed to wheeze.

"All in the name of personal progress," she explained in a decent imitation of the Reconciliations professor. "Now we have something to share with the class. That has to be worth _at least_ ten Resolution points for me."

She could practically hear him calculating the degree of civility it would take to earn them the daily maximum of points; after all, she was doing the same: five points for initiating communication, five for a polite exchange, another potential five if either was willing to share their interaction in front of the class, and-

He interrupted her mental math. "_Twenty_ if I offer to return this to the library, and you accept."

Loath as she was to admit it, his suggestion had strategic merit; twenty was a decent score and five points below the daily max of twenty-five, thus circumventing the suspicion of their having choreographed the entire interaction. Not that she'd have expected anything less of him – he was just as behind in Reconciliation points as she was. "Fine." More to herself than him she added, "Even a Divination teacher wouldn't consider this education."

They walked in silence for a long while. As they neared the castle, he shifted the heavy book in his arms and smoothed a gentle hand down its worn spine. "A little light reading?"

"It's an old favorite."

"My mother used to read it to me," he said quietly, "when I was little."

Not friends, but not exactly enemies, either. Not any more. Nevertheless, the rest of their trek was bound by the hush of an unspoken truce. They'd dipped into the shallowest waters of conversation and somehow ventured slightly deeper than intended. Now they were in danger of being sucked into that riptide swirling at the back of their subconscious, the one threatening to pull them in one of two directions: either back into the nightmare from whence they'd come or the uncharted waters of something entirely new. The ankle-depth of civility was safe, they'd wordlessly agreed, and so there they remained. Well, there and the library, where they borrowed each other's class notes on a regular basis to earn points for the one school subject they both hated.

Had Ron decided to return to Hogwarts, he'd have been appalled at the cease-fire; what Harry might have thought was uncertain, for he, too had opted out of finishing school, instead holing up at Grimmauld with Sirius after the war, and his letters tended to avoid subjects tainted by the past. But Ron and Harry had abandoned her, and in doing so forfeited any right to the expression of opinion.

They reached the entrance hall to find the headmistress standing just inside the large doors, arms crossed and wand twitching in her hand. Hermione experienced a moment of regret and possibly even guilt, but she quashed those inconvenient emotions. "Good afternoon, Professor McGonagall."

"We're grateful you've managed to fit school into your busy schedule, Miss Granger." When Hermione attempted to continue on into the hall, she added, 'Oh, no; you'll stay _right_ here_._"

The guilt resurged with a hint of shame, and she blushed. Had she ever been addressed in that tone by an authority figure? A flood of memories involving Harry and Ron washed the burn from her cheeks and curved her mouth into a smirk before she could stop it. Yes, actually, she had.

Professor McGonagall turned to Malfoy. "Thank you, Draco; you may return to class – and tell Professor Hipthripple that Miss Granger will be spending Reconciliation class with me in my office."

Hermione's smile widened. She shot Malfoy a smug look.

"In detention."

She whipped her head back to the headmistress. "Wh-"

"For the remainder of the year."

"Yes, ma'am." His tone was one of neutrality and respect; as he walked away, however, there was a distinct swagger to his gait.

Hermione's brain began to spin with unhelpful information. Resolution Points could only be collected in class. No points could be earned in detention. Points counted toward graduation.

Professor McGonagall interrupted her epiphany. "You may continue to dwell on the scope of your short-sightedness on your own time." She pointed in the direction of her office. "_Some_ of us have work to do." And then she set off at a brisk pace.

Hermione followed blindly. How would she earn points? "Professor," she began, only to be cut off right away.

"Not a _word_, young lady."

She spent the rest of the short walk trying to think of anything besides points, turning her thoughts instead to the official-looking parchment that had arrived by Owl Post last Wednesday, now tacked in pride of place above her desk. An entry-level job at the Ministry might not be glamorous, but it was a way to get her foot in the door. Then look out, Wizarding world, because she had plans for change in the DRCMC! Just as soon as she had her diploma in hand, she'd be signing her first job contract, free at last to move on and leave the past where it belonged: far, far behind. And she was so far ahead of her classmates in ninety-nine percent of her classes that, really, all that was left to do for the rest of the year was attend lectures, hand in all the completed assignments filed in her desk drawer by due date, and earn as many poi-

_Damn_. She'd led herself straight into that. Just as they reached the revolving staircase and the headmistress murmured the password to the gargoyle, her brain offered one more unhelpful thought for consideration. She paused in mild panic. Oh, gods – could points be _taken away_?

She had no recollection of entering the office; suddenly she found herself parked in a chair in front of the headmistress's desk, pinned in place by a pair of bespectacled, age-clouded eyes that nevertheless managed to see everything. She squirmed under the intense scrutiny for several uncomfortable moments.

Finally the headmistress sighed. "Whatever shall I do with you?"

"Well, you-"

"It was a _rhetorical_ question." The headmistress removed her glasses and rubbed her temples. "What were you doing out by the lake?"

Hermione's hands tightened into fists under the cover of her robe sleeves as she studied a spot on the wall directly to the left of Professor McGonagall's head. "Reading."

"I don't suppose it was something Professor Hipthripple assigned for class," the professor said wearily. And then, when Hermione opened her mouth to answer, she continued, "You have _rarely_ attended Reconciliation, refused to take part in both large group and individual therapy sessions, and failed to turn in _any_ of the work assigned in that class. I've had the pleasure of reading your entire file this morning." She gestured toward a stack of parchment on her desk.

"Is that what she told you?" Hermione met the headmistress's gaze in an attempt to avoid gawking at the enormous file. She'd handed in exactly one assignment for the entirety of the year, which meant all of _that_ could only have been written by Professor Hipthripple. Her _observations._ "Because it's not true; I turned in the Christmas Holiday project – the one about our families."

"Ah, yes," the headmistress said drily, holding up what appeared to be a toddler's crayon drawing of three stick people and a nondescript black scribble standing beside an ochre rectangle, a yellow circle with several odd appendages smiling down from one corner. "The 'Portrait of a Family' assignment. Not your best work, dear."

Her eyes darted to the file before she could find another neutral point of focus. "It was meant to be abstract." Good Godric, but the thing was huge . . . how could anyone have written that much about a student who didn't participate on the few days she actually attended class?

"It was meant to be an _essay_! It amazes me how much time you've invested in being difficult this year." The headmistress made a few notes on a piece of parchment and then returned her attention to Hermione. "Did you read _any_ part of the Ministry document you signed for Reconciliation?"

That was enough to break free from the pull of the file. She turned her full attention back to the headmistress. "Of course I did!" If she sounded affronted, it was because she was; she'd never been accused of _not_ reading something.

"Then you're aware of the fact that you're in violation of it."

"I have written _multiple_ letters, both to the director of the Department of Post-War Studies and Minister Shacklebolt, protesting _the program_."

For a split second it looked as though the headmistress was trying not to roll her eyes. "And has either responded?"

"Not yet," she conceded, "but I'm sure there's a considerable backlog of complaints."

The headmistress gave another sigh. "Hermione, the Ministry has put time and effort into rebuilding our world through programs like Reconciliation, and in doing so it has already begun the-"

If she heard the term 'healing process' one more time, she was going to scream. "If it's all the same to you," she interrupted, "I'd rather not talk about this any more, Professor." She returned to her study of the wall. "May I please have my detention assignment?"

"That won't be a problem."

"I'll need to borrow a quill." Hermione watched her pick up a large rubber stamp and apply it viciously to several parchments. "And ink."

The headmistress peered over the rims of her glasses. "What I mean to say is _that won't be necessary_. I've discussed the situation with your parents at length." She returned to her assault of the parchment for a long minute, silencing Hermione's muted noise of indignation with a withering glare. "Since you, in the sagacity of youth, haven't communicated with them since the Christmas holidays."

The slight twinge of remorse she'd harbored to that point died then, replaced by an anger she only just managed to restrain. Of _course_ her parents had been kept abreast of her progress; she'd signed the consent form to allow it along with every other student who'd reached the age of majority. _Because it's not enough for my past to be dredged up constantly in the Magical world – it needs to be done in the Muggle one as well. _"That was very thoughtful of you, professor." She couldn't help glancing at her file once more. How much of that _nonsense_ had they been told?

"It was _necessary_ because plans for your immediate future have changed, thanks to your _sheer pigheadedness_."

For one brief second, Hermione entertained the hope that this entire meeting had been a ruse, an attempt to scare her onto the straight and narrow road to Reconciliation. Had the Ministry reached a decision regarding her petition? She leaned forward. "What do you mean?"

Professor McGonagall shuffled the parchments into a neat stack, tapping them into order with efficient finality. "I mean you won't be graduating with the rest of your class."

"But I already passed _all eight_ of my-" she faltered under the professor's glare.

"Indeed you did, and I'm sure I don't need to tell the 'brightest witch of her age' that receipt of N.E.W.T.S. qualifications is contingent upon graduation. You'll get them just as soon as you retake Reconciliation and _pass_ it."

Hermione spent the next forty-five minutes staring at the same spot on the wall and, by sheer dint of will, _not_ crying as, for once, her magnificent mind failed to find a solution to the problem at hand.

Finally, _finally_, the dinner bell gonged from deep within the castle, and the headmistress said without looking away from her paperwork, "You may go."

The curt dismissal would have stung earlier; now Hermione found a cynical sort of humor in its irony_._ She almost laughed, but at the last minute her innate respect for Professor McGonagall regained control. Instead she stood abruptly, school bag in hand, and made her way to the door.

"I expect you _on time _tomorrow," the headmistress snapped at her rapidly retreating form.

For a long while Hermione remained locked in thought, navigating the castle by muscle memory alone while she chewed on this new injustice as a dog with a bone. Much had been promised to those who returned for the Eighth Year Experience; academically, it had been delivered. But despite the advanced coursework, it was clear from the very start what the true focus was to be: _Reconciliation_, the Ministry's one-size-fits-all plaster for the damage caused by the war. Because the Ministry's need for the Magical world to relive every horror of the Second Wizarding War again and again and _again_ until all traces of its ugliness had been scrubbed clean was greater than the needs of its citizens, some of whom just wanted to be left the hell alone.

Hogwarts had been breached once more by the Ministry, whose employee – in the guise of teaching robes – spent each school day exposing the most private pains of every eighth year student before an audience of their peers, collecting them in exchange for _points_ as proof of the program's effectiveness. Individuals who refused to participate or didn't show adequate progress in 'the healing process' wouldn't be allowed to graduate. _This_ was the Reconciliation that Hermione chose to boycott: the false promise of a government more concerned with statistics than individual citizens _proven_ by the fact that Kingsley Shacklebolt hadn't bothered to reply to any of her letters.

It was the cold that finally brought her back to awareness – that and the deepening shadows; she realized she'd wandered far past the walls of the castle and into the ruins of greenhouse six. She shivered, considering her options, and decided the bleak desolation of the space was far more suited to her current mood than anyplace else. She'd have cast a Hot-Air Charm to warm herself, but lately her magic had been a bit . . . Well. If she were to be perfectly honest, her magic had become increasingly difficult to conjure on good days and impossible to control on bad ones, and she'd reverted to doing many things the Muggle way.

There was a pile of supplies nearby, evidence of the Advanced Herbology students' current restoration work on the crumbling building, and she dug through it until she'd found what she wanted: a bolt of jute Hessian. Then, wrapping the coarse fabric around her like a blanket, she curled up under the cover of a dying potted palm and tried to recall a time when the world had been bright with promise and magic a joy to wield.

* * *

Long after her office door had slammed shut behind Hermione, Minerva McGonagall sat at her desk in a pose that looked just the slightest bit like defeat.

"I always said that girl was even more trouble than Potter." The voice came from a portrait frame on the wall to her left, where a wizard regarded her with dark, hooded eyes.

His sneer would have terrified anyone else, but Minerva dismissed it with a withering glance. "As much as I admire your keen wit and intellect, I'm in the mood for _neither_ at the moment."

He pursed his thin lips and was silent for a long while. Finally he said in a much different tone, "If anyone can help her, it will be you and Hestia."

"Thank you, Severus. I hope you're right." The headmistress made a contemptuous sound and waved at the enormous file on her desk. "If only she wanted to help _herself_!"

"Must I remind you the most wounded souls rarely recognize the gravity of their condition?" he asked quietly.

For a moment the headmistress's eyes were suspiciously bright and her wrinkled chin wobbled, but when she turned to the portrait a few moments later, there was a familiar fire in her eyes. "If you have some advice, you might as well spit it out."

**See you next Sunday!**

**with love,**

**-G-**

**(as always, follow bespokeaffinity on Tumblr and Twitter for teasers)**


	3. Chapter 3 : Good News

**I like to listen to music as I write. Go listen to _Riverside_ by Agnes Obel; it sums up the mood for the first third of _Rivers_.**

**CoquetteKitten, as always, is my cowriter and alpha reader**

_Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Unplottable location, Scotland_

He didn't dawdle, but as usual he certainly didn't hurry on his way to Reconciliation that day. Through the castle he trudged during the last few minutes of passing time, his mind entirely elsewhere as he navigated the dwindling stream of other stragglers. Just outside the headmistress's office, however, he was physically jolted back to awareness when something very much like a Quaffle hit him in the chest. He gave a violent start and would have fled, but at the last second he realized he'd merely run slap-bang into another, shorter, student.

"Sorry," they offered in unison, although the other person added, "_Idiot_."

Draco knew that voice. He looked down at the student who lay sprawled on the corridor floor at his feet: Granger.

She glared up at him. "You might watch where you're going!"

Exactly two weeks had passed since her comeuppance in the Entrance Hall at the hands of the headmistress, fourteen days since the world had finally – _finally_ – held Gryffindor's Golden Girl accountable to the standards set for the _rest_ of them. The memory would have made him smirk but for the fact that his body had been shocked into full flight mode by their collision. "I could say the same to you," he countered irritably, rubbing at his chest to hide the trembling of his adrenaline-laced hands. "Your head should be classified as a weapon."

Any other student in Draco's position would have offered a helping hand; anyone other than Granger would have expected it. Instead he smoothed down the front of his robe while she struggled to her feet, studying her from behind the cover of his untidy hair as his brain niggled that there was something _off_ about her. She was thinner than she'd been the last time he'd seen her, and she had dark shadows under her eyes, but neither seemed to satisfy his instinct. What was it . . .

"I could lodge an assault complaint against you, you know," she groused.

If he wasted any more time, he'd be late. "_I'm_ the one with the bruised sternum." He turned toward his destination. "Enjoy detention, Granger."

"Enjoy _Reconciliation_, Malfoy," she shot back.

At the door to the classroom Draco paused, realizing what, exactly, had been wrong with her: she'd had no school bag. What sort of class-time detention didn't involve schoolwork? And what self-respecting swot didn't have every _other_ book she needed for school? But there were far more pressing matters at hand, like surviving Reconciliation. Dismissing the little mystery, he took a deep breath, then slipped in and took his usual seat in the far corner of the very last row.

"We finished the exercise," murmured Greg, who sat beside him. "It's just lecture now."

He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. "Thanks."

Greg returned to his notes, which, as usual, were as painstakingly neat as they were slowly written. Draco watched in fascination as his childhood friend mouthed each word he wrote, pausing at times to sound out a particularly difficult one. It looked hellish, and yet not once in all the years they'd sat in classes together had Greg complained about his difficulty in school. Unlike Draco himself, who complained constantly and had comparatively nothing to complain _about_. Aside from the obvious.

He turned half his attention to Professor Hipthripple's lecture, storing every image and sound in his prodigious memory. _Prodigious_: that was what his mother called it – but what did she know? What was so impressive about _never_, not _ever_, being able to forget something no matter how hard one tried?

Greg had paused and seemed to be counting syllables on his fingers. Draco took pity on him; "r-e-s-o-l-u-t-i-o-n," he offered quietly. He didn't offer to write his notes; he knew what Greg's response would be.

"We lessen conflict between ourselves and other individuals or groups when we come together and negotiate in a reasonable manner." the professor explained. "_This_ is resolution."

The problem with most of the people he had conflicts with, Draco mused, was that _he'd_ begun the trouble in the first place. That tended to make people less willing to negotiate. And the people he _didn't_ have conflicts with – well, that was usually because _he'd_ been the one trying to be reasonable. Trying to get along. A particularly vivid memory of him trying to be reasonable came to mind, one involving- He forced his attention back to the lecture. Fortunately, his memory made it possible for him to forgo note-taking in his classes. Unfortunately, it allowed him more time to _think_, and the problem with that was his brain had a tendency to dwell on things best Obliviated.

"Let's do one more exercise today."

At her words, nearly half the students gave a quiet groan. Draco shrank down in his seat and then, realizing he was _still_ half a head taller than Parvati Patil, who sat in front of him, leaned down to fiddle with his school bag.

"Any volunteers?" the professor asked. When she was met with silence, she laughed. "Have I given you too much to think about today?"

It appeared there was to be a reprieve; he sat up. Unfortunately, the motion caught Professor Hipthripple's eye. "Draco! Thank you very much."

His heart began to pound, and his stomach dropped all at once down to his feet. He fought the dizzying sensation as he considered his options. He could stand quickly, faint, and be taken to the infirmary, or he could stay and take it on the chin; there really was no in-between. The one earned him no points while the other did. It always came down to points.

"Aaaaaaand . . ." the professor glanced around the room. " . . . Susan."

At least it was Susan Bones; she was a Hufflepuff and therefore _lived_ for resolution. Maybe she'd do the entire exercise herself.

"Now," said the professor, "Let's say Susan has done something to Draco – something that has hurt him deeply – and there's conflict between the two. And, since their jobs require them to work cooperatively, they need to solve this. How can they find resolution?"

Every eye in the classroom turned to him. Most bore the relieved expression of those who'd escaped the spotlight; some looked mildly sympathetic; a few were downright smug.

"I should apologize," Susan answered promptly and, in the prescribed format of every Reconciliation exercise, she stood to act out her answer. "Draco, I'm sorry."

Could it be as simple as that? His heart beat even faster.

"No, no, no," Professor Hipthripple argued, "that's too easy. What if you think you had every right to do what you did?"

Susan looked confused.

"Susan, you've been a bully. Remember, bullies don't apologize for their behavior."

It was true, he thought, and bullies _liked_ their 'behavior'. Especially when they got away with it. He himself had spent several years _glorying_ in all kinds of 'behavior' – but he'd learned from the best, hadn't he? As if to prove that true, his brain supplied him with a vivid memory of-

"He should confront me," said Susan, mercifully interrupting his internal discourse.

A wave of nausea washed over him, and he looked down at his desk. The thing about confronting bullies was that it rarely worked outside of theory.

"Oh, _well done_, Draco!" Professor Hipthripple sounded pleased. "That's a very accurate portrayal of what happens far too often. Ten extra points for that."

He glanced up in surprise, but she'd already directed her attention to the rest of the class. "Victims rarely speak up for themselves." She turned back to him. "But in _this_ case, the two of you _must_ find resolution. Are you ready?"

How many times had she asked him that in the past year? His answer was still the same. Nevertheless, he braced a hand against the wall and sucked down several quick lungfuls of air, trying to think his way through the one exercise he couldn't even fake. He needed the points.

He looked at Susan, who'd probably never harmed another living thing in her life outside of self-defense – and she'd only needed to do that because of people like _him_ – to find her smiling at him, understanding glowing in her kind eyes. There was a roaring sound in his ears.

Bullies didn't deserve compassion; without them, there'd be no need for resolution because there'd be no conflict. No conflict. Why couldn't they all just forget conflict? The room tipped sideways as his heart took rapid flight and his breathing raced to keep up.

"I-" he gasped. It seemed to echo off the classroom walls. He tried again. "I-"

"Class dismissed." Professor Hipthripple seemed to swim as she directed the students to the door, and her voice sounded very far away. "Greg, please wait in the corridor."

Greg complied, making room for Susan Bones, who dropped down beside him in the manner of someone who knew exactly what to do. "It's okay, Draco," she murmured.

The room was too loud, too hot, too bright. "I- I need to get out of here." He scrabbled at his tie with trembling fingers.

"You can go wherever you like after a Calming Draught," said Susan. "The professor's getting one from her office right now. Can you breathe with me in the meantime?"

Nodding wildly, he followed her lead, taking as slow and deep a breath as he could manage in the moment. _Inhale_. He was aware of nothing outside his narrow range of focus but Susan. _Exhale_. The classroom was comparatively silent now in the absence of students, the sounds of their synchronized breathing resonating through the empty space for several long minutes.

If anyone had asked, he'd have shrugged off his immediate compliance as an automatic reaction to the situation and then redirected the conversation to something altogether different. Quidditch, maybe. Truth was, this wasn't the first time Susan had done this for him – but no one else needed to know the extent of his problem.

Then Professor Hipthripple was kneeling beside his chair, a familiar vial in her outstretched hand. He gulped down the Calming Draught, focusing on the interaction between the professor and Susan as the potion worked its magic.

"Thank you, Susan," said Professor Hipthripple in a tone that was as kind as it was unyielding. "You may go."

Susan looked between them with a worried frown, but she stood obediently. "Yes, ma'am."

The sudden absence of his previous panic combined with the powerful draught to create the strangest sensation of not really being in his body at all; it also slowed his thought process to a merciful crawl. Draco watched as Susan picked up her school bag and turned toward the door, and it occurred to him in a detached, delayed sort of way that he should thank her. Instead he laid his head down on his desk and closed his eyes.

Quiet movement at his side eventually roused him from his torpor; he opened his eyes to find the room swathed in twilight. "You did well today," said Professor Hipthripple.

He gave a noncommittal hum.

She was speaking again, but he was so mesmerized by the combination of Calming Draught and the soothing tone of her voice that he missed most of it. ". . . What do you think of that?"

Draco opened his eyes and lifted his heavy head. "I'm sorry; I wasn't listening."

"Your probation meeting has been rescheduled to the morning of graduation day so you and your mother will be able to attend both."

He stared at her for a moment, his drugged mind finally making the leap to her implication. It couldn't be.

Professor Hipthripple beamed at him. "Congratulations."

"I'm not . . . I can't . . . " He hadn't earned all his Resolution points. On top of that, he'd taken the Dark Mark; regardless of his motivation for doing so, it meant he couldn't graduate before he'd served his entire probation –and then only with the approval of the Ministry.

"I've kept the Department for Post-War Studies apprised of every student's progress this year, Draco. Yours has been remarkable, and in light of that fact I recommended you for timely graduation. I don't have to tell you what that means."

Graduation meant he could leave Hogwarts and complete his probation at home. _Home_. The very word caused his heart to contract painfully. "Does my mother know?"

She nodded. "The Ministry sent an official letter, but don't you think she'd like to hear from you?"

The floating feeling was beginning to wear off, and with it the fleeting respite from his overactive mind, which suddenly recalled several very specific memories involving his home, his mother, and- He focused on the professor's kind face in an attempt to shut them out. "Thank you."

"I'll have the Floo activated in your room." She gestured toward the door, signaling the end of the conversation. "And Draco," she called as he exited the classroom, "I'd like to integrate more Reconciliation work into your probation."

He stifled a cynical snort. She'd done something for him, after all; now he was required to pay for it. It was how the world worked. Greg was waiting in the corridor, leaning against the wall as he read from a textbook and looking for all the world like Atlas with his burden. He looked up with obvious relief. "Everything alright, then?"

Force of habit caused him to glance up and down the empty corridor before he tipped his head in the direction of their dormitory. "Not here."

They walked in the silence of familiarity across the castle, Draco so immersed in his thoughts he didn't realize someone had joined them until they arrived in the eighth year common room, and Greg's voice broke through his musing. ". . . d'you mind?"

He looked up, slightly startled to find Longbottom in their company. "What was that?"

Greg's beefy face was twisted in uncertainty. "It's just, I need to get in my weekly hours for the Advanced Herbology project, and Neville's on his way there now. D'you mind if I go with him?"

Yes, in fact, he _did_; he needed to talk things through with a _friend_ before he Flooed his mother. So set had he been on it being Greg that he snapped, "For fuck's sake, do as you like! You don't answer to me."

A few eighth years glanced up from various points around the large room. Greg flinched. There'd been a defining moment in their friendship, years ago, in which Greg had surrendered his will and Draco had taken control, but he didn't like to think of it. What it came down to was this: that Greg would follow where he led without question, and not only would he trust his life in Draco's hands but lay it at his feet as well. The knowledge of such absolute submission – to _him_ – had once given Draco a heady sense of power, but the feeling had long since morphed into a responsibility so heavy it weighed him down like a wet cloak.

He tried again. "Sorry. Just go, Greg; it's fine." Then, to prove that statement true, he turned toward the boys' dormitory. "See you two later." He was halfway up the stairs when the door swung shut behind them and almost to the landing when a familiar voice called his name. He looked over his shoulder to see Daphne standing below, beckoning him back down.

When he was at her side, she asked quietly, "Are you alright?"

"Yeah."

She studied him intently. "Susan?"

He nodded, grateful for the one person in his life capable of extrapolating volumes from a single word or gesture.

She smiled, apparently pleased with what she'd seen. "I like her."

"She's alright," he admitted. "But there's something else. I'm-" He paused, the next word sticking in his throat.

"What?" she prodded, leaning in closer and holding his gaze. "Are you in trouble?"

He glanced around the common room and, when he was certain no one was eavesdropping, whispered his impossible news.

Daphne's reaction was as close to ecstatic as he'd ever seen her; she took his hands in hers and gave them a gentle squeeze. "Congratulations," she breathed. She released her grip and stepped back, mouth twisting into a pensive frown. "Go Floo your mother."

The entire exchange had taken less than less than half a minute, and yet _everything_ had been communicated; such was the power behind the imperturbable façade of Daphne Greengrass, and she shared it willingly with the fortunate few she considered her friends. He took a deep breath and nodded, and they went their separate ways.

As Professor Hipthripple had promised, the Floo in the room he shared with Terry Boot was active. He sank down in front of it with a handful of Floo powder and paused as he always did before calling his mother, willing his emotions into whatever semblance of order he could manage.

She was kneeling before the hearth in the library when he flamed into view. She drew back in surprise and pressed a hand to her chest. "Draco!"

"Mother." He swallowed down a lump in his throat. Did she look well? Aside from infrequent Floo conversations, he hadn't seen her since September, when she'd kissed his cheek on the train platform and told him to leave the past behind. With her. She hadn't needed to explain what she meant by that.

She smiled at him, and the warm glow in her eyes had nothing to do with the light of the Floo. "To what do I owe the pleasure of a call from my favorite son?"

"Do I need a reason to call my mother?" He attempted to look affronted and failed miserably.

"Let me guess," she said playfully. "You need pocket money."

There was something wonderful and _ordinary _about their banter, and it lifted his spirits. "Yes, Mother," he deadpanned. "I've spent it all at Honeydukes. I couldn't help myself."

She gave a quiet, happy laugh. "Just so long as you use a cleaning charm on your teeth twice a day, you may spend however much you like at that place."

"I don't actually-"

"Hush! Let me have my fun." She smoothed her skirts, drawing his attention to a stack of parchment half-hidden by the voluminous fabric.

He noticed a smudge of soot on her hand and was instantly curious. "What are those papers? Are you burning something?"

She stilled the movement and gave a dismissive wave of her other hand. "Just scraps to start a fire."

He decided her face was paler than it had been moments ago. "Are you well?"

"Of course, my darling." She gave him a stern look. "Do you plan to tell me your news at some point, or would you prefer to procrastinate a bit longer?"

The allusion to his graduation deflated his mood, and as he formulated his answer he looked around the familiar room. It looked brighter, although that could be explained simply by the relaxed set of his mother's shoulders. "It looks different somehow."

She leaned toward him, eyes shining with an indecipherable emotion. "I opened the draperies."

The simple statement caused his heart to squeeze again, and this one was far more painful than the one he'd experienced earlier. As unimaginable as daylight in the library would have been mere months ago, it was the look in his mother's eyes that was even more so now that he recognized it: hope. And now he was going to crush it. "Mother, I-"

"I've made other changes, too," she interrupted. "You won't believe it! And by the time you come home-" She broke off suddenly as if she'd caught a glimpse of the angst behind his smile.

He watched as that hopeful glimmer was replaced almost immediately by dignified resignation, and the knowledge that he was the cause of that expression was worse than physical pain. "_Mother_."

She answered far too swiftly. "I understand." Then she added in a reassuring tone, "I _do _understand, and I won't pressure you again."

His head told him she really did understand, but his heart decried him for the coward he was. Not going home meant avoiding the lingering presence of- of things he wanted to forget; it also meant leaving his mother to finish her house arrest in the same solitary state in which she'd started it. He couldn't meet her eyes, and so he focused on her tightly clasped hands.

"_Draco_."

The word was imbued with such love it gave him the courage to vow, "I _will_ come home; I promise. I just need more time."

She seemed intent on returning to their previous light mood. "Well, then; tell me where you plan to stay in the meantime, young man. I may not be able to visit, but I _can_ Floo-call and send money for sweets."

He gave her a grateful smile as he thought quickly. _That_ was the part he'd wanted to hash over with Greg first. "I'm not sure yet," he finally admitted, "but I'll start by asking the headmistress if I can board here. It shouldn't be a problem since my probation will be over before the fall term."

"I forbid it." She wagged a finger and gave a mock scowl. "It's a mother's right to house her child; I'll speak to her myself."

He wished he could reach through and unclasp her hands, which were white-knuckled despite her teasing manner. Instead he did as he should have done for Susan, who had shown the same benevolence in the face of his weakness. "Thank you."

"I'll find a way, Draco," she promised. "You won't have to come home until you're ready."

**For those of you sticking with the story, see you next Sunday :)**

**-G-**


	4. Chapter 4 : Greenhouse

**Glitter here - back again with another update for RotD. Thanks for checking back in!**

**I like to listen to music as I write. Go listen to _Riverside_ by Agnes Obel; it sums up the mood for the first third of _Rivers_.**

**Harry Potter belongs solely to JK Rowling. **

_Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry_

Daphne was in their room when Hermione finally crept in. At Hermione's entrance, she looked up from the length of parchment spanning her desk. "How'd detention go?"

Hermione crossed to her own side of the room and flopped onto the bed. "It figures he'd tell you."

In its infinite wisdom, the Ministry had decided the eighth years should drop the divisive house system and become '_integrated', _which was to say that Slytherins and Gryffindors had been rooming together in relative peace for the entire year. Well, you could take the student out of the house, but you couldn't take the house out of the student. Like called to like, as evidenced by the fact that, at the end of the day, Ravenclaws still flocked together, Gryffindors lounged as a pride, Hufflepuffs banded into their cete, and the Slytherins hissed the school's secrets amongst themselves -– Daphne and Malfoy especially.

"In his defense, I asked."

She studied her roommate silently. Daphne was okay in a neutral sort of way; she was pleasant, unopinionated, and so quiet and tidy that sometimes Hermione forgot she was even there.

Daphne looked up again. "Do you want the Reconciliation homework?" And then, when Hermione raised incredulous eyebrows, she snickered.

No; as far as roommate assignments went, she could have done far worse. "Thanks, but no."

"But your Resolution points - you must be _hundreds_ short."

She reached for her pillow, curling into its comforting form. "It doesn't matter; I'm not graduating."

"_What?_" Daphne turned in her chair.

"I didn't pass Reconciliation. According to the Ministry agreement we all signed, that means I can't graduate."

"But," Daphne argued as she stood and approached Hermione's bed, "your job-"

"The offer is only valid pending my graduation, and I have to retake Reconciliation for that to happen."

"But you're delivering the address!"

"Not any more. Five Galleons says Susan gets asked; she's the poster child for Reconciliation." She snorted. "She's so well-adjusted it's nauseating."

Daphne paused in the act of sitting down beside her. "I think Susan's nice," she said in an odd tone. She returned to her desk. "I really am sorry for your bad news."

"Thanks." Hermione blinked. If she wasn't mistaken, Daphne had just disagreed with her for the first time ever. _Over Susan Bones_. There was another long silence as she considered this. "I should have seen it coming," she admitted. "I'm actually surprised it hasn't happened before now."

Daphne glanced over her shoulder, an indecipherable expression on her lovely face. "It's because of your war status. Anybody else would've been sent home months ago."

Those words struck without warning against the dam holding back her emotions, sending a tiny yet ominous fracture skittering over its surface, and all at once the dormitory room was far too small. "I think I'll go for a walk." She smoothed her coverlet and righted her pillow with measured movements, focusing on the ebb and flow of her hands, and if she slammed the door on her way out, it was because her focus had already turned elsewhere.

_Hermione Granger has detention for the rest of the year._

_There's something wrong with Granger._

_No one's seen her do magic in months._

_I heard she's protesting the Rec requirement._

_I heard she had a mental breakdown._

_Not likely!_

_She's probably just getting private Rec lessons. _

_It figures she'd get special treatment._

News of her detention status had spread like Fiendfyre through the student body, and the only reason it didn't bother Hermione _more_ was that not one person seemed to know the _extent _of her disgrace. Still, it smarted. Whispers and stares still persisted three weeks after the news of her defeat at the headmistress's hand, and when her defiant glares only heightened the general air of awkwardness, she began finding reasons to skip meals and classes. She avoided the eighth year common room from that point onward, passing through it only when she was sure it would be empty.

The faculty gave her a wide berth. If she attended lessons, she was no longer called upon to answer the questions that stymied her classmates. If she skived, no one hunted her down. Sometimes she turned in the assignments she'd completed so long ago; often she didn't, and the pile of ungraded parchments now spilled over the sides of her desk onto the floor of her bedroom. It didn't seem to affect her marks, which were already so far ahead of most of her peers it was ludicrous. The sudden freedom might have been exhilarating but for its price –- for the first time in her life, Hermione was without the set of weights and measures by which she'd determined her self-worth for so long: academia.

Days and nights began to blur together in a repetitive loop of time spent hiding in her favorite spot by the lake, followed by reading in the farthest corners of the library and, when the library was closed and the castle locked down each night, hours upon hours of sleep -– more sleep than she'd ever had in her life. The result was a narcotic numbness that dulled every nerve, every thought. She welcomed it.

That Friday she fled detention even faster than usual, pausing at the bottom of the stairs to the headmistress's office to consider her options for an inconspicuous exit. At this time of day Hogwarts was like a ticking social time bomb; at any moment, students would burst forth from its every corner -– dormitories, classrooms, the Quidditch pitch –- and flock to dinner in boisterous groups, but today held an additional element to avoid. The seventh years, whose graduation would be a week earlier than that of the eighths, were practicing commencement exercises before dinner in the Great Hall, and soon the corridor to her immediate left would be crowded as they tromped enthusiastically through. Her lip curled at the thought.

Here was another change wrought by the advent of Reconciliation: ceremonies for the graduating classes. Never before had Hogwarts opened its gates to the masses, but now parents, press, and prominent Ministry members were welcomed to celebrate what was being billed as the rebirth of the Wizarding world. Even _Muggle_ parents. A few weeks ago, she'd accepted the idea without hesitation, but that had been when she'd had a place in it all: at the head of her class.

Hermione forced her attention back to the problem at hand. She could attempt to make it all the way back to her room, but the chances of that happening with minimal contact with her peers was slim. The same was true of the library, the clock tower, the courtyard . . . But there'd be no one coming from the north end of the castle at this time of day, and so she scuttled out the nearest outer exit and over the viaduct, heading to the one place she knew would be relatively void of people: greenhouse six.

She must have dozed off at some point because when Hermione next became aware of her surroundings, the sanctuary of the greenhouse had been invaded by big, deep, booming voices that echoed off every surface.

"Easy, now."

She opened her mouth to tell them to go someplace else but closed it when she realized it was Nev. After all, he had more right to be in the greenhouses than anyone -– he who headed up the teams of Herbology students in their efforts to repair the buildings and their broken plants. She peered around the base of a potted palm to find her old friend working at a nearby table, packing a tiny plant into a container with tender care.

"You'd better do it, then," said another familiar voice. "You know I'm all thumbs."

_Ugh_. The Goon was with him. Years ago she'd have said otherwise, but Hermione had no real beef with Greg Goyle other than the fact that he was dumber than a box of rocks; how he'd ever landed the gig as the best mate of Draco Malfoy –- who was no slouch intellectually, were she being honest - eluded her.

"But it's fingers that count in gardening, eh?" Nev joked. "Provided they're green." He topped up the pot with soil. "Go ahead; you repot the last dittany."

And for some reason Nev had taken The Goon into his care this past year like some kind of rare seedling; the two of them spent countless hours working together in the greenhouses, whether for Herbology projects or repairing the war-ravaged buildings outside of class time.

Usually Hermione just ignored them when she visited the quiet space, Nev's friendly nod and smile invitation enough for her, but on this late afternoon there was such an air of camaraderie between the two she felt like an interloper, and so she simply watched from her hiding spot with a restless sort of resentment.

The Goon regarded Nev for a moment and then returned to his work, dumping more soil on the table and the floor than in the pot. "This is the last of the lot?" he asked. He gestured with his head to the row of filled containers on the long table.

It was all Hermione could do _not_ to break cover and go clean up the mess, but she managed to stay where she was.

"Yep. Now they're all out of the ground, and I can begin righting the floor properly and adding some of those improvements I've been sketching." Nev waved to the large drafting table not far from them. "Come fall you won't recognize this place."

The Goon followed Nev's gesture with his eyes and then surveyed the crumbling disaster all around them. "It won't be done before graduation."

"Yeah, but I have . . ." Nev looked upward and moved his mouth rapidly without making a sound for a second or two, "seventy-three straight days after that. Or something close." He shrugged. "It's plants I like, not numbers."

"You're staying here," The Goon deduced with a frown.

"That I am; I applied for one of the summer residencies and got it two weeks ago." At The Goon's bewildered expression, Nev added, "I guess they knew there'd be a few kids without . . . well, there were bound to be difficulties for some."

Hermione knew nothing of a summer residency program for students. She listened more closely.

The Goon seemed to be attempting to think. "But your Gran."

Nev ducked his head and fiddled with a pot. "She's, uh . . . she's been in care these past few months." He looked up with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "S'nice – she has her own room and nurse, and there's a big garden. Quiet place down in Feltwell."

Augusta Longbottom, the formidable head of the Longbottom family, in care -– another thing Hermione hadn't known. Then again, she hadn't spoken to Nev outside of token pleasantries for . . . well, for months, really.

The Goon gave a deep hum of what could have been sympathy.

"So I'm here," Nev continued, "and my plan is to stay. If Hogwarts'll have me, I'd like to be the next Herbology professor when Professor Sprout retires. Now what _I_ want to know," he said in an obvious effort to steer the conversation elsewhere, "is how things are with Susan."

Hermione watched with detached fascination as Greg Goyle slowly but steadily turned the deepest shade of red she'd ever seen on a human face.

Nev's smile became genuine, and his eyes lit up. "So you asked her."

It was The Goon's turn to turn his attention elsewhere. He stooped and fiddled with his shoelace under the cover of the table, and while his broad grin was hidden from Nev, it was clearly visible to Hermione. _Ugh_. "Yep."

"And?"

The Goon stood up, shoulders squared and smile still in place. "Said she forgave me a long time ago and she'd like to be friends." And then he blushed again, adding, "We studied together last night."

There followed a bout of comfortable silence between the two in which they moved the potted plants to a different area of the greenhouse, and Hermione was just thinking about slipping away when they stopped just on the other side of her hiding spot, effectively pinning her there.

"I wouldn't change anything, y'know," The Goon rumbled in his deep, rough voice. He reached for a nearby broom and began sweeping up his mess. "Couldn't."

"What d'you mean?"

"Need a dustpan."

"'S'just soil, Greg. Leave it be." Nev walked back to the table and leaned over it, hands splayed on its worn surface. "What did you mean?"

The Goon looked almost defiant; he squared his shoulders and stood tall, towering over Nev, and he was glaring. "If I could go back, I'd be his friend _again_ and I'd do whatever he said."

Neville straightened to his full height; tall as he was, he was still dwarfed by the sheer mass of The Goon. "Draco."

The Goon nodded, his huge hands balled into white-knuckled fists. "We did bad things. _Wrong_ things." But he wasn't angry with Nev –- no, it was clear he was fighting the memory of something or someone else.

"Yeah, you _did_." Nev stared back. "You really did."

"But sometimes it comes down to the _why_." Now The Goon's tone was of a pleading nature; his fists loosened, his shoulders slumped, and his head hung down until his thick dark hair hid his face.

"Then _why_, Greg?" Nev implored as if he'd been seeking this particular answer for a long time. "What was the reason for all those things?"

She held her breath, suddenly aware that her presence was completely inappropriate. But where was there to go without popping up and explaining she'd been –- what, sleeping? She wasn't that good of an actress. They'd know immediately she'd been snooping on their private conversation, and while she didn't give a lick what The Goon thought, the idea of betraying Neville Longbottom's trust made her feel a bit ill.

"Because he's a brother to me," Greg growled.

"What about _his_ reason?"

Greg looked strangely discomfited. He looked down and shuffled his feet, but when he looked back up he wore that same challenging expression. "He'd have done anything to keep her safe."

The atmosphere crackled with latent magic as the two wizards faced each other until Nev sighed. It was a heavy, sad sound that echoed as a lament around the greenhouse. "Stay here this summer."

Greg –- for Hermione had difficulty thinking of him as The Goon after his impassioned speech -– shuffled his feet again. "That'd be nice."

"There were still openings when I applied; they can't all be taken." Nev tapped his fingertips against the tabletop with quiet finality. "Come on; There's just time to get the forms before dinner. I'll go with you to McGonagall's office."

And then they were gone, leaving Hermione alone with her thoughts once more.


	5. Chapter 5: Parents

Malfoy Manor

Unplottable location

The Cotswolds, Wiltshire

The moment the Floo connection with Draco had been cut, Narcissa had begun making a list of friends and acquaintances who might help them. Now, several weeks later, she was no further along than she'd been when she'd promised him her help. She stared down at the crumpled piece of vellum she'd worked on every day since - at the names she'd written only to cross out one by one as the reality of her circumstances became yet bleaker. The problem was that over half of her acquaintances were either dead or imprisoned, and it was unlikely the remaining few would be able or willing to assist. As for friends, she hadn't had any since leaving school.

She pocketed the list with a sigh.

Martha Goyle would have gathered Draco into her massive arms without a thought to her own welfare, but she'd been dead two years, felled by Voldemort as a warning to any other mothers who dared try to keep their sons from taking the Mark. The Fawleys had already left for their summer home in Saluzzo. The Greengrass family might consider taking Draco in – he and Daphne were close, after all. Then again, they'd probably be concerned about the impact of such an association on their business; if one was a former Death Eater, one did not hobnob with those who'd switched allegiance in the eleventh hour.

There was her sister, but they'd been estranged over twenty years; there was her cousin, but he'd probably rather kill both her and Draco on sight . . . Narcissa sighed again. That left only official channels.

She decided to start with someone she knew would take her call, and so she Flooed the headmistress of her son's school.

Minerva McGonagall was seated at her desk and speaking with someone just out of sight of the fireplace. " . . . an entire week to complete! I was beginning to think you'd changed your-" She glanced toward the fireplace with a look of impatience. "Oh, for heaven's sake! What is it now?" she snapped, and then, seeing who it was, added, in a slightly more formal tone, "I'm sorry, Mrs. Malfoy; I thought you were-" she waved her hand. "I'm just finishing with a student before rushing off to the next potential catastrophe. What can I do for you in less than five minutes?" She turned her attention back to the students. "You may consider your application accepted, Mr. Goyle. Now go scrub quickly –that's far too much potting soil for the Great Hall!"

Narcissa realized it must be nearly dinner time. "Please forgive my intrusion; I'll Floo back later."

There was the sound of retreating footsteps and a heavy door closing, and then the headmistress returned her attention to the fireplace. "Nonsense. Let's just skip over the preliminaries, shall we? I assume you need something; what is it?"

She faltered for a moment without the crutch of formality until she remembered Draco's need. "It's graduation," she managed finally.

"If you're worried it will be contested, I can assure you everything is very much in order. He may leave Hogwarts any time after his probation hearing, which is scheduled for that morning, although our hope is that he'll participate in the-"

Abandoning etiquette for the sake of expediency, Narcissa interrupted. "Draco has asked for an alternative place in which to finish his probation; I promised him I'd find one."

"It's been nine months since you last saw each other," the headmistress protested. "Surely he'd prefer to spend the summer with _you_."

It was less about _with whom_ he wanted to spend the summer than it was about _where_ and _without whom_, Narcissa wanted to explain, although in this case the two were intrinsically bound. However, some things were best left unspoken. "It's a mere three months, Headmistress; after that we'll both be free to go where we choose." She gave an involuntary glance over her shoulder.

When she turned back, the headmistress's usual direct gaze had narrowed to hawk-like scrutiny. "If this has to do with-"

"Are you able to assist us in this?" Narcissa interrupted once more, staring back levelly.

Unfortunately the headmistress seemed intent on her argument. "Draco has made great progress this year, but Professor Hipthripple maintains that he must face-"

No, no, no! She'd sell her soul to the next up-and-coming Dark Lord before she made her child do that. "Please," she interjected, unable to keep a note of urgency from her voice.

The headmistress was still peering at her intently, but the lines of her face were suddenly and significantly softened. "There will be no coercion of anyone under my care, Narcissa. If you're both certain this is what you want, then you may choose other accommodations."

"Then he'll stay at Hogwarts," she stated in as firm as tone as she could manage in the moment.

"We _have_ opened the school to a limited number of students for the summer - specifically, those accepted into an unprecedented work-study program." The headmistress frowned. "Unfortunately, there are no more beds available."

Narcissa's heart, which had been racing just seconds before, stuttered and seemed to drop into her stomach. And then, realizing she was already in a position to beg – she was, after all, on her knees before a person of influence – she prepared to abandon the vestiges of her tattered pride.

But it seemed the headmistress wasn't done. She continued, "I will, however, find him one, and I'll make sure it's a safe place."

Time dilated, the seconds elongating as Narcissa's brain processed that statement from every possible angle. A bed at Hogwarts had seemed a foregone conclusion, something requiring little to no exertion of influence on the headmistress's part. A bed someplace else – and someplace guaranteed to be safe – was another matter altogether; it spoke of effort and, therefore, indebtedness. Would she never escape the machinations of those in power? And yet it was for Draco, for whom she'd lived and breathed since the first fluttering proof of his existence within her. "If you'll do this," she pledged, "I'll do anything."

The headmistress sighed heavily. "I don't think you've fully grasped the implications of your actions in the Forbidden Forest last May." She took off her spectacles and rubbed her eyes. "You might never attain popularity with the public, but you've earned the acceptance of a select few. Not only are we in positions uniquely suited to help you, but our assistance comes without strings attached."

Narcissa barely restrained a cynical laugh. "Experience dictates that 'assistance' is always conditional, Headmistress," she countered, "and I always honor my obligations."

From deep in the castle the dinner gong sounded. The headmistress stood abruptly. "I'll be happy to argue my point when I'm not needed to supervise a horde of hungry pubescents. Until then, good night. I'll see you at Draco's probation meeting." And with that, the green glow of the Floo connection died.

Narcissa was gathering her skirts in preparation to stand when a low, dangerously lazy drawl from the other side of the library caused her to freeze in place. "Whatever are you plotting behind my back, wife?"

She gave a thick swallow but said nothing, aware that in the growing dusk he could see nothing beyond a few feet in front of the frame he currently occupied. If she waited long enough, he'd move on in search of her, and then she'd be free to creep through the back corridors to her room.

"I'll discover your secret," he added in the velvet tone that had left her weak-kneed as a schoolgirl. "I always do."

Now it sent a shudder of fear and loathing through her entire body. She said nothing, willing her breathing to be as silent as possible as she continued to kneel on the hearth long after her legs went numb with cold and cramp.

Time was when he'd be drunk into oblivion at this hour or, at least before their house arrest, out inflicting his favorite brands of fear and pain on someone else. But time had lost all meaning in this house, and Narcissa no longer paid it any heed.

* * *

_Granger residence_

_The Old Vicarage_

_Thompson's Lane_

_Cambridge, Cambridgeshire_

Ed was taking an awfully long time in the kitchen, Jeanne Granger finally decided. She glanced from the empty wine glass beside her, avoiding the vacant armchair to her left, to the bar across the long narrow drawing room where a particularly excellent bottle of Cabernet sat uncorked and waiting. "What in God's name are you doing?!" she bellowed in a distinct Mancunian accent.

Footsteps in the hall caused her to look up from her _British Dental Journal_ once more. "I thought you'd decided to grow the damned grapes yourself," she griped, and when her husband had set his tray on the low table in front of her and began to sit down beside her, she added, "Oh, no you don't!" and gave her empty glass a meaningful shake.

Ed Granger grinned and walked the ten steps to the bar. "Yes, Highness."

She looked over the tops of her reading glasses to study the small tray on the ottoman. Cheese, olives, nuts, grapes . . . "You forgot the savory crackers."

He gave a deep, happy chuckle as he filled her glass. "Of course I did."

"Bring more Gouda, too," she said absently, returning to her article.

He'd made it three meters down the hall when she yelled, "And let Badger in before he starts barking!"

He returned presently with a good-sized woolly dog at his heels, and after depositing the requested items on the ottoman, he flopped down beside her on the sofa with an exaggerated groan. "Woman, you're an insufferable tyrant."

She grinned. "Would you have me any other way?"

"Absolutely not." Ed reached for the wine bottle, pushing Badger's nose away from the tray of food with a stockinged foot. "No, Badgie. Not for you."

The dog plopped down at their feet and whined.

And so they spent that June evening as they had so many others since Hermione left for school that first time years ago, enjoying each other's quiet company and the antics of the dog. This particular evening, however, was different. Despite the cozy room and the comforting rumble of Ed's voice as Jeanne leaned against his shoulder, the atmosphere was charged with anticipation and, even deeper beneath that, things she would never have admitted to another soul: dark things, like fear and futility. Things she'd sworn would never have a place in this house or any other she inhabited.

But Ed – solid, unshakeable Ed – rumbled on and rubbed his fingers along her arm, and she fed on his strength without shame. Every so often she glanced toward the fireplace, each time willing it to flare to life, but she kept up her part of their pleasant conversation, defying those dark things with every quip and comment.

Badger, too, was restless – although he was easily distracted. "Give the damned dog a biscuit before his feelings get hurt," Jeanne ordered when he tried to insinuate his shaggy form onto her lap.

The dog whipped his head up at those words and gave a hopeful _whuff_.

Ed complied. "I'm a saint, you know," he said to no one in particular.

"Yes, you are," she laughed, stretching up to plant a resounding kiss on his mouth. "Edward, patron saint of tyrants, dogs, and the oppressed."

They sat together in a long silence broken only by the occasional _chink_ of the cheese knife on the plate and the munch of biscuits until the floor clock chimed the hour; then Jeanne made an odd, unconscious movement – she reached a hand down to her knee as if to touch something or someone – and the strange mood in that room shifted to such an uncomfortable place, she was struck by a compulsion to confront it.

"I miss her," she said. "I keep seeing her out of the corner of my eye, sitting there on the floor by me. I can almost feel the weight of her head on my leg."

Ed kissed his wife's forehead. "We'll see her soon, Jeannie."

"I want her _home_ soon," she griped. "I want her _here_ with _us_."

He sighed. "We agreed it's for her own good. She needs time."

"If only she'd _told_ us!" she argued. "There's that brilliant psychotherapist at Wolfson! She could have-"

"What! Told him about the existence of magic and her part in the second wizarding war?" He leaned forward until he could look into her eyes. "We've been through this before, love, but on different sides of the argument. He'd lock her up on grounds of insanity."

Jeanne glared at him. "On an intellectual level I respect your logic, but tonight my heart refutes it. I want our girl!" He was right, of course, damn him. Ed was invariably the one arguing for Hermione's return to their safekeeping while _she_ countered in the name of reason. Tonight, for the first time in ages, she found no comfort in the indisputable.

The corners of his mouth lifted into a smile, but his eyes belied a grief that mirrored her own. "She'll be home in no time."

Badger rose from his place at their feet to lay his head on Jeanne's knee. He gave a soft whine and wagged his tail.

"As you've told me countless times, Jeannie," Ed continued, holding her yet closer, "this is about _Hermione_, not us. She needs help, and she needs it from the wizarding world."

"She protected us when it should have been the other way around," she murmured into his collar. She stretched a hand to the dog and smoothed his shaggy hair from his eyes. "And now we need other people to care for her. It should be _us_."

She was spared from any further admission of weakness, fortunately, because suddenly the fireplace flared with a familiar green flame, and Jeanne did what she knew best – she sprang into physical action. "Hermione!" she called, jumping to her feet. The sprig of grapes she'd been worrying between her fingers fell to the floor forgotten, and Badger snapped them up greedily.

It was Minerva McGonagall. "I'm afraid it's just me," she said kindly. "Good evening, Dr. and Dr. Granger."

Jeanne was already across the room and sinking to her knees on the bare oak floorboards. "How was she today?"

If Jeanne Granger's greeting – or lack thereof – was tinged with a familiarity that spoke of many such Floo calls, the headmistress's response only confirmed it. "She's fine; a bit sullen, but that's to be expected."

Ed joined Jeanne on the floor. "_Sullen_," he echoed. He squeezed his eyes shut and made a small pained sound. "Oh, my girl," he breathed.

"She still hasn't Flooed us," said Jeanne, exchanging a worried glance with Ed.

The headmistress shook her head. "She's angry, but Professor Hipthripple maintains that's an important step toward healing. I suggest you send an Owl; let her know you understand and look forward to seeing her in two weeks."

"How soon can she come home for a visit after that?" asked Jeanne. "I don't mean to push, but-"

Ed silenced her with a gentle murmur. "_Jeannie_."

"I'm sorry." She looked distinctly unrepentant, though.

"There's no precedent for Hermione's situation," said the headmistress. "We've never had an eighth year class or Reconciliation at Hogwarts; there are no rules in place. Weekend visits or even an open Floo would be acceptable to me-"

Jeanne Granger said nothing, but she clutched Ed's hand.

"-as _long as_ she cooperates with Professor Hipthripple and works toward completing Reconciliation," the headmistress finished in a stern tone.

"We'll do whatever we can to encourage her," said Ed. He looked at his wife, at her bright eyes and brave expression, and then back to the green glowing face in the fireplace. "We were thinking of getting Hermione a mobile phone; it's a Muggle communication device. She'd be able to contact us any time without an Owl or Floo. Would that be acceptable to you?"

The headmistress looked intrigued. "That's a very thoughtful idea. I cannot promise it will work at Hogwarts, but you're more than welcome to try."

The Grangers nodded in unison. "We'll bring one when we come," said Jeanne. "And if there's anything we can do at any time, please let us know."

An odd expression flashed across the headmistress's face. "Actually," she said, "there just might be something."

"Anything," repeated Ed. He was distracted momentarily by Badger, who was sniffing loudly at the tray on the ottoman behind them. "_No_, Badger. Go lie down."

"Hermione isn't the only student with a need to finish a program this summer. Earlier tonight I agreed to help find a host family for an eighth year student who needs a safe place for the next three months. Have you any interest in such a thing?"

Jeanne was taken aback. She glanced at Ed in confusion.

The headmistress's choice of wording obviously intrigued him. "What do you mean by 'safe place'?"

And so she bluntly described the young man's troubled past, his escape from it after the war, and the temporary terms of his freedom.

"Draco Malfoy," mused Ed. "I know that name; wasn't he a bit of a bully?"

The headmistress made a sound that was suspiciously close to a snort. "You could say that."

"Hermione had a rather low opinion of him, if I recall," said Jeanne. "And she's an excellent judge of character."

"A great many of us disliked him, and for good reason," agreed the headmistress, "but he's worked very hard this past year, and he's changed." She hesitated before adding, "His father may have been a monster, but his mother saved Harry Potter's life at great personal risk; she and Draco have been given a second chance. I've promised to do whatever I can to help."

Jeanne chewed at the inside of her mouth. "Why can't he go home? Surely his mother misses him."

The headmistress frowned. She seemed to be weighing her words, because in the end all she said was, "Until he heals further, it isn't a safe place for him."

"We'll do it."

Jeanne swung her head in Ed's direction, mouth agape. "Ed!"

"Jeannie, we might not be able to help Hermione right now the way we'd like, but we could help this boy." He squeezed her hand. "We have room and the means to do it."

The rest of their conversation was silent as the headmistress waited patiently amongst the Floo flames. Finally they turned to her. "We'll need to discuss this further, if you don't mind," said Jeanne.

The headmistress gave an acquiescing nod, still managing to look slightly triumphant. "I understand. Why don't we speak again tomorrow night?"

It seemed there was more to think about than say at that point; a few moments later Minerva McGonagall bid them good evening, and the Floo connection died in a sputter of green sparks.

Jeanne sighed. "You and your projects."

"You have to admit, Jeannie, this is a _humanitarian cause_." Ed's eyes held a familiar gleam of excitement.

"What about your work?" she argued. "You won't be able to leave your papers spread out all over the dining room any more – in fact, you might not be able to work here at all."

"Well." He had the grace to look guilty. "It's about time I made use of that office; we both know I'm not really supposed to take patient records home."

There was a short pause as they considered the truth of that statement, but Jeanne wasn't quite done. "He's not going to loaf around all summer," she warned. "I'm going to hold him to the same standards to which I held our daughter; that means chores, family meals, and either study or gainful employment."

"What do you think about having him work at the surgery? You need an extra hand at the reception desk right now."

"_Oh_." She looked intrigued by that idea.

"And-"

A loud canine belch from behind them interrupted Ed; Badger stood by the very empty platter licking cheese and biscuits from his chops.

Jeanne made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a cry. "I certainly hope he likes dogs."


	6. Chapter 6: Hope

**Greetings from chez Glitter! Honestly didn't think this update was going to happen this morning - the Glitter litter are all home from university due to the COVID-19 outbreak, and they are IN MY WAY. So here you are; you're all very welcome. Now would one of you please come clear the brunch disaster from my kitchen?**

_**JKR is the sole author/owner of the Harry Potter series. Thank goodness she allows us to play in her world!**_

_**props to CoquetteKitten for being my alpha reader. Who's a good KittyKat? You is! Yes, you is!**_

_To the Library and back again_

_Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry_

Hope was an elusive, winged little thing. It had never done more than soar out of reach all Draco's life until this final year at Hogwarts; now, something that felt like it might just be _that_ seemed to perch on his shoulder every once in a while. It was both elating and unsettling, and it scared the shit out of him.

Yet he was afraid of scaring it away, and so he did his best to ignore it. Still this cautious optimism persisted, fluttering in the very farthest corner of his awareness, affecting the smallest details of his daily life. He was pondering this curious thought as he walked across the Middle Courtyard toward the library that Thursday afternoon, when a voice far too close for comfort jolted him out of his reverie.

"Were you on the receiving end of a Confundus?"

Draco gave a violent start and tried to mask it by hiking his school bag higher on his shoulder with a vigorous swing. "You need bells sewn on the hem of your robes, Boot." He glanced at his roommate out the corner of his eye. "What's with the sneaking about?"

"I don't think _church_ bells would register when you're off in your own world," Terry Boot countered. He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "I've been calling to you since you entered the courtyard."

It wasn't unusual for Terry – or even some of the other eighth year boys – to speak with him outside of classes, but the context was nearly always academic. Draco willed his heart to stop pounding as he turned in the direction indicated, where a small group of eighth years was clustered under the east colonnade. "You know the rules: no one borrows my notes outside the library."

"No, it's-" Terry paused as if considering his words. "Look – we're planning a sort of party the night before- Well, _you_ know. And even though you're not- I mean, we think you should be there."

It took Draco all of three seconds to glean the gist of Terry's verbal fumbling, but he stood gaping at him much longer. They thought he wasn't graduating. Well, of course they did. He hadn't told anyone beyond Daphne and Greg, and neither would break a confidence. It was exactly what he'd wanted until now, when the realization that his peers assumed him once again lacking in some way struck his ego an unexpectedly harsh blow.

He weighed the effect of several different answers before he realized it didn't matter _what_ he said – everyone would know the truth soon enough. "Who said I'm not?" He set off again toward the library as fast as his long legs could carry him.

Terry's were that much shorter; he scrambled to catch up. "You passed _Rec_," he clarified in a cynical tone.

"I did the work same as everyone else, didn't I?"

"But your probation . . ."

"Doesn't automatically preclude graduation."

"You're _graduating_."

The incredulous manner in which Terry spoke those words brought Draco to a halt. A month or so ago, he'd found them impossible to grasp; now, staring down the disbelief of another as his ego still twinged, he couldn't stop from rolling his eyes. "You know, for a Ravenclaw, you're a bit slow on the uptake."

Terry regarded him impassively for a long moment, then his lips twitched in the hint of a smirk. "Just for that you can scrounge up some Firewhiskey for the party." He turned to go. "The _good_ stuff!"

For a brief moment, that thing that might very well be _hope_ fluttered right next to Draco's shoulder.

The sanctuary of the library, with its smell of books, the whisper of robe sleeves against bookshelves, and the illusion of companionship afforded by shared academic pursuits, rarely failed to bring him some semblance of peace. That afternoon, however, the library only taunted him.

It had been yet another long day of waiting to hear from his mother about summer housing – three weeks, and not a word beyond her usual care packages – and then, just as he'd managed to turn his thoughts elsewhere, his conversation with Terry had sent them careening straight back. Three hours later, when studying had had no more effect on his agitated state than the constant rearranging of his quills and ink pots, he stopped in the act of straightening his stack of textbooks and changed tactics.

The key to successfully disengaging one's intellect was to find a hobby that was at once so difficult, so fraught with details, and yet so completely enjoyable as to make it impossible to concentrate on anything else while engaged in it. Draco had found his a long time ago, as a young boy in an enormous house with no one but time for a playmate. Now, as it had so often before, it offered a temporary escape from life in the form of an improvised tabletop Quidditch pitch right there in plain site of Madam Pince, who did nothing beyond raise her eyebrows in warning.

Within minutes he was immersed in his game, comprised of bits and bobs from his school supply box. Two teams of quills whizzed silently back and forth vying for a bottle stopper Quaffle, two India rubber Bludgers, and a crumpled Honeydukes wrapper Snitch, and on either end a pair of scissors hovered in the air as makeshift goals, and there was no reality beyond them so long as he maintained his concentr-

The table shuddered as something heavy dropped onto it.

"I cannot _believe_ Madame Pince allows you to do that," groused a familiar voice. There was the sound of buckles unfastening, followed by that of books being stacked none too gently.

He looked away from his game with a frown of annoyance, lowering his wand in the process, and the assorted quills and bottle stoppers – all flying about in controlled chaos – clattered to the table. _That_ drew Madame Pince's attention; she directed a disapproving _harrumph_ in their direction.

Draco beamed his most angelic expression at the librarian and mouthed an apology, and she waved him off with what actually might have been a smile. Smug with the small victory, he turned to where Granger stood at the far side of the table, her face twisted in a grimace of malcontent. "*Melius est veniam quam licentiam petere."

Granger shoved a handful of erstwhile game pieces toward him with slightly more force than was needed, disturbing his precisely aligned parchments. "That's the shoddiest Latin I've ever heard."

Very few of his peers offered him competition academically; only one had ever managed to best him, and she happened to be looking down her nose at him in a very condescending manner at that moment. If he sounded defensive, it was because he was. "I'd like to see _you_ do better on short notice."

"**Potius veniam quam licentiam petere," she rattled off without hesitation. "I need today's Potions notes."

He tried not to look impressed as he restored his space to its original pristine state. "Perhaps you should spend as much time on Potions as you do dead languages." When he'd realigned his quills in a precise row to the left of his textbooks, he began sorting through a neat stack of parchments, pausing to give her hands, which were splayed on the tabletop, a once-over. "You're not touching my notes until you clean your filthy hands."

He regretted his choice of words almost immediately. Time was when she'd have fired off a heated retort, or hexed him, or – he nearly flinched at the memory – set her fist on a collision course with his face. Whatever the option, it would have ended with her as the victor, because he'd long since proven himself incapable of much more than verbal sniping. But she'd obviously learned a thing or two about him in the past year, because she turned her attention to the damned quills that would not stay in precise right angles to his ink pots.

"Something has _you_ wound tighter than a top." She scowled as she aimed a Scourgify at her hands. "Just so we're clear, I consider 'filthy' to be offensive, and under the rules of Reconciliation I have the right to report you for the use of a pejorative."

He shot her a panicked look before he could stop himself. "You know I didn't mean . . . " And she did – he _knew_ she knew it hadn't been intended as an insult; that didn't diminish her evident pleasure in making him squirm just a bit.

"That would _really_ set you back in points. You'd _never_ graduate."

For a fleeting second, Draco considered setting her straight, if only to wipe the superior smirk from her face. He schooled his features and said nothing, sliding his notes toward her. If he was wound tight, _she_ was in a right strop. "You should start copying what you need; I promised Greg my notes tonight, too."

Granger was studying him with narrowed eyes, her hand hovering just over the stack of parchment. "What is it?"

The possibility that Daphne had told her occurred to him -– they were roommates, after all -– but just as quickly he shook it off. "Nothing." She'd find out soon enough,

"What do you know?" she prodded suspiciously.

Draco peered at her from behind the cover of his hair, at her tight mouth and unusually bright eyes. He'd thought she was angry, but now, under closer scrutiny, she appeared to be _fearful_. He decided to turn the tables on her. "How was dinner tonight?" She hadn't gone, he was certain of it -– she hadn't been at a meal in weeks –- and since her motivation for avoiding the crowded space was undoubtedly detention-induced shame, the otherwise innocent question was a neat dig.

But she just shrugged, and as her shoulders relaxed, her mood did as well. "I didn't go." She sifted through his notes then, copying what she needed, and time passed in a neutral sort of silence. Finally she asked, "Why do you bother taking notes in Potions? You don't need them."

"Why do you bother borrowing them? You don't need them." He smirked as he traded his Arithmancy textbook for that of Herbology and began flipping through the pages. "Perhaps I enjoy taking notes."

She snorted. "You do it for Goyle. Not sure why, though – Potions is far too complicated for him."

"Oh, and you didn't do the exact same thing for The Twat?" he muttered. All traces of humor were gone from his pale face. "I seem to remember you took notes for him in _every_ class."

"Perhaps I enjoy taking notes," she mimicked childishly. "Besides, Ron wasn't actually _stupid_; he just . . . " Why had it been so important for her to help Ron pass in school that she'd willingly traded her time and self-respect to do so? And then he'd just gone and dropped out when he realized he'd never pass the Reconciliation evaluation! At least The Goon had stuck out eighth year, if only out of loyalty to his best friend. "It doesn't matter," she finished lamely.

Malfoy was regarding her coldly. "I need to go. May I have my notes, please?"

Sod it all, she'd gone and offended his tender feelings. It seemed an apology of some kind was in order – after all, they'd be working together for the next few months. "Sorry."

He gave her a tight nod but began gathering his things.

She tried again. "I'd offer to take notes for you this summer, but I wouldn't dream of depriving you of such a treat." It didn't matter whether he'd been at dinner earlier; Daphne already knew, which meant _he'd_ know soon enough.

"What?" There was a crease in his forehead, and his eyebrows were drawn in what appeared to be bewilderment.

"Well, I can only imagine Hipthripple will have us working together." She mustered her Gryffindor bravado. "It makes sense; we're the only two that didn't pass."

That same odd expression crossed his face again, and he shifted his eyes sideways. "Well, actually . . . "

"Thank Godric," she breathed. "You're saying there are others who aren't graduating? YES!" She slapped her hand down on the table, drawing a scathing glare from the circulation desk. "Of course I'm not the only other one!"

"That's not . . . " Malfoy looked as if he were about to be violently sick. "I mean . . . "

Then comprehension hit her like a Bludger to the gut, and she saw red. "Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me," she fumed, pushing out her chair abruptly. She began shoving her books into her bookbag. "What did you do, have _Daddy_ pay your way out?!"

He froze.

"You did, didn't you! God, you're such an entitled arse – you always were, and you always _will _be." She snatched up her favorite quill, snapping off the tip of its nib in her pique, and jammed it blindly into her bag.

"You know he's dead," he whispered.

"Oh, that's right; he drank himself to death while serving a life sentence of house arrest," she mocked. "Because being forced to live in the luxury of his own home for heinous crimes committed against the Wizarding world was such a brutal punishment."

"You don't know what you're talking ab-"

She pressed on. "Which means it must have been Mummy."

At the mention of his mother Malfoy underwent a rapid transformation. He leaned down, eyes narrowed and jaw clenched, until his face was inches from hers. "Don't you dare."

For one fleeting second Hermione felt a reluctant respect for Malfoy, but she quashed it just as quickly. "Here." She thrust his notes at him. "You'd better bring these to Goyle before he gets lost trying to find the library."

Malfoy took the stack of parchment and tucked it into his bag. "I earned it." He said it so quietly Hermione almost didn't hear him. When he'd finished buckling his bag, he raised his eyes to hers. "I _earned_ it," he repeated in a trembling voice. Then he was gone in a soft rustle of school robes.

*Literally, 'To ask for forgiveness is better than permission.'

**A slightly cleaner translation of "It's better to ask forgiveness than permission."

_**Beware the Ides!**_

_**Mwah,**_

_**-G and CK-**_


	7. Chapter 7: Probation

**Happy Sheltering in Place, peeps! Any of you other introverts feeling like we're winning this one for the global team? **

**Some of you have noticed how angry Hermione is in this story (and how broken Draco is); this is because we've begun with the premise that war damages the psyche as much as the body, and that those exposed to it manifest the symptoms of PTSD. Will our protagonists find healing? Of course - but in their own time. Patience, dear readers.**

**JKR owns the HP universe; we're merely travelers in her space. **

**The divine CoquetteKitten is my alpha-beta-gamma-theta as always. She also keeps my virtual G&T topped up and garnished with castelvetrano olives. Thank you , daaahling!**

_Malfoy Manor_

_Unplottable Location_

_Wiltshire_

_The Cotswolds_

Saturday morning Narcissa put on grey silk robes befitting her widowed status and dressed her hair in the same way she'd done every morning since her wedding day, pausing to study her reflection in the dressing room mirror. Nineteen years, always the same elegant coiffure – and all because he commanded it. She raised a rebellious hand and tugged loose a lock of hair, smiling in satisfaction as it fell in asymmetry over her ear.

She arrived early for the probation meeting to find Draco pacing before the gargoyle guarding the headmistress's office, his fists jammed into the pockets of his trousers. He stopped abruptly when he caught sight of her. "Mother!"

For a few brief minutes she forgot everything but this long-awaited reunion; she clutched him almost fiercely, remarking in wobbly tones about how much he'd grown and how well he looked. And he did look well - he was still more boy than man in many ways, and yet he'd gained a healthy amount of weight and there were no longer shadows ringing his eyes. She told him as much as she pushed back his untidy hair and straightened his tie, and he laughed and pretended to be embarrassed by her attention.

"Honestly!" he protested. "I'm not a little boy anymore." But he leaned into her ministrations with a delight that matched her own.

In the privacy of the moment she let down her customary reserve and beamed up at him. "Nonsense; you'll always be my boy."

Just then he noticed the loose lock of hair hanging over her ear. "Are you sure you're my mother?" He smirked impishly, eyes crinkled with happiness.

"I-"

The echo of footsteps rounding the nearest corner caused them both to step back and school their features into neutrality. It was the headmistress. "Pleasant day to you, Mrs. Malfoy." She nodded at Draco and gestured toward the gargoyle. "Shall we go up?"

No sooner had she spoken the password than more footsteps rang out, and the Ministry-appointed probation officer arrived in a swirl of smart robes. He was young - not much older than Draco - and looked familiar; Narcissa was quite sure she heard the headmistress swear under her breath.

"Good morning, Headmistress." He gave a stiff, shallow bow and glanced at the Malfoys.

The headmistress gave a crotchety _humph_ and turned toward the stairs.

Draco's reaction was subtle and immediate. First his expression registered shock; then his shoulders sagged slightly, his eyes flicked downward for a few seconds, and his hands curled back into fists.

Distracted by the change in her son, Narcissa followed the others up into the headmistress's office to where a long table with five chairs had been set up; she and Draco sat in the only two that were side by side.

The probation officer took the chair at one end of the table without another word and began shuffling his parchments into efficient piles. The headmistress sat at the other end and waved toward the remaining chair. "Professor Hipthripple should-"

As if on cue a witch sailed into the room with an armload of parchment, inkpots, and quills. "Here I am!" She deposited it on the table and sat in the remaining chair - the one facing the Malfoys.

But Narcissa barely noticed, because the probation officer began speaking even before Professor Hipthripple had sat down. Eyes fixed on his work he said, "The purpose of this meeting is to review the conditions and terms of the probation for Draco Lucius Malfoy and to determine their efficacy for the remainder of its duration." He cleared his throat and looked up at the headmistress.

She frowned at him and didn't answer.

Professor Hipthripple broke the odd silence. "I know you boys were at school together for a few years, but let's begin with introductions." She was remarkable only for her plainness, the kind of woman easily overlooked in a crowd and quickly forgotten afterward, until she spoke. Her voice was extraordinary; it was as thick and sweet and slow as sun-warmed honey, and it matched the glow in her dark eyes. "I'm Hestia Hipthripple, liaison for the Department of Post-War Studies and professor here at Hogwarts. My purpose at this meeting is to speak on behalf of Draco as well as represent Reconciliation." She smiled across the table at the Malfoys and then the probation officer.

Nerves jangling, Narcissa stretched her mouth in what she hoped would pass for a polite smile and returned to her study of the probation officer. Where had she seen him before? She was jolted from her musing by the voice of the headmistress.

"Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry and professor of Transfigurations, as you're each aware." The headmistress peered over the rims of her spectacles at each person present. "My purpose here is to make sure everybody behaves." She looked at Narcissa expectantly.

It appeared to be her turn. "I'm Draco's mother, Narcissa Malfoy."

The probation officer shuffled his papers again, and there was another small stretch of odd silence. She nudged Draco, who appeared calm save that his hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists on his lap. He bobbed his head and said quietly, "I'm Draco Malfoy; you all know why I'm here."

Those who'd already spoken turned to the probation officer, who raised a hand to smooth down his wiry red hair. Again Narcissa was struck by a sense of recognition, but of what she couldn't quite recall . . . Red hair, that familiar chin, the self-important set of his shoulders - suddenly the pieces snapped together, and before he even said it, Narcissa _knew_. He was-

"I'm Percy Weasley, _official_ supervisor of this probation beginning today," he announced in a rather pompous manner. "I represent the Ministry for Magic in its capacity to serve justice to all former DeathEaters."

"Thank you, Mr. Weasley," said the headmistress. "I assume the paperwork is in order?" At his nod she made an impatient gesture with her hand. "Then stop dithering and pass out the copies!"

The meeting began with a reading of the official document, which Narcissa had poured over for the past year and long since memorized. In a nutshell, Draco would remain under the supervision of the Ministry; his wand was subject to routine inspection; his movements were restricted to a specific, pre-approvede area around his place of residence; and his interactions with other former DeathEaters were restricted to pre-approved and strictly public events. On the last day of August, barring any violation of these rules, he was to be released from probation at a final private hearing.

Since she had no need to pay close attention, she used the time to study the faces of the others. Draco kept his eyes on his copy of the document, face clear of emotion save for a minute tic in his cheek as he clenched his jaw in a rapid rhythm. The headmistress watched the probation officer with the same no-nonsense expression Narcissa remembered only too well from her own days at Hogwarts. Professor Hipthripple alone seemed unaffected; she smiled to herself as she scribbled some notes on a piece of parchment.

When Percy Weasley had finished reading aloud, he looked around the table. "Are there any questions?" For the span of several seconds it seemed there weren't. "Well, then. I've been apprised of certain modifications to this probation that, in my opinion as _official representative_ of the Ministry for Magic, require careful attention. Therefore I have written a series of addendums."

For the first time since the meeting had begun Draco raised his head, eyes betraying his panic for a brief second, and then whatever semblance of order had prevailed at the table unraveled quickly.

"Oh, for Godric's sake," The headmistress growled.

Professor Hipthripple glanced up from her note-taking. "How unusual! Has the protocol for probation hearings changed in the past few days?"

"Don't let's get him started," muttered the headmistress.

But Professor Hipthripple persisted, turning to Draco and then Narcissa. "Have there been previous alterations to this probation?"

Percy Weasley glanced around the table; when he got to the Malfoys, he raised his chin until he was looking down his nose at them. "I have the power to do so as an officer of probation." He shuffled the order of his parchments and tapped them into a neat stack again. "Addendum number one," he read, "the Ministry will conduct a series of unannounced visits throughout the remainder of the sentence."

Narcissa looked to Draco, who responded with one sharp nod of his head, eyes fixed downward.

The headmistress, however, made a sound that was suspiciously close to a snort. "For what purpose - to make certain Mr. Malfoy has made his bed?"

He looked offended. "I'm sure we're all aware of the risk to this host family in housing a former DeathEater, Headmistress. This is to ensure their personal safe-"

"Mr. Weasley," interjected Professor Hipthripple. She was no longer smiling. "As an officer of probation, your job is to ensure a successful reintegration into society, not ostracize the probationer through insinuations. Such a course of action would be counterproductive to the progress Draco's made."

The headmistress wasn't done. "Draco came back to Hogwarts of his _own_ volition, Mr. Weasley. He's been a model student and he's passed the Reconciliation course, as all your _official_ documents can verify. I have personally vouched for him. Are you implying I'm no longer able to discern the motives of a student of mine?"

Percy Weasley flushed but continued, "Addendum number two: the Ministry reserves the right to revoke any and all privileges without explanation."

There was a sharp intake of breath beside her, but Narcissa refused to react. He _wanted_ a reaction - wanted to see them acknowledge their powerlessness. And so she rebelled as she had to every man who'd forced her into such a position - she stared at Percy Weasley blankly, willing him to see her apathy to his posturing.

The headmistress muttered something under her breath and glared at him. "Have you so quickly forgotten the price of hubris, Mr. Weasley?"

Draco's jaw had stopped its incessant flexing; he didn't appear to be breathing at all.

"The Department of Post-War Studies does _not_ sanction these policies, Mr. Weasley." Professor Hipthripple's voice was dramatically cooler than it had been previously. "Expect to hear from your department head."

He didn't make eye contact with anyone now, but he didn't back down. "The final addendum addresses the cost of time for any unscheduled visits," Percy Weasley pressed on as if he hadn't heard the professor's warning. "It states that an extra hour and thirty minutes shall be added to the length of the probation for each visit I or any other officer makes over the next three months."

"I'm actually a bit disappointed with that one," scoffed the headmistress.

"Of course, you may contest any or all of these," he said. "Official forms are available through the Ministry and must be filed in triplicate no later than noon today in order to avoid violation of the terms."

Narcissa thought quickly. A lifetime of submission may have silenced her tongue, but it had done little to dull her mind - and she'd been a quick study at school. Had she not spent the last six months reading every legal parchment pertaining to her late husband's accounts? Addendums were tricky things. Fortunately or _un_fortunately, depending on one's point of view, very few people seemed to understand them.

Her heart was pounding as she found what she sought at the very bottom of the form: an small, insignificant-looking stamp. Would anyone else see it and point it out? She glanced at the other two witches at the table.

Professor Hipthripple was watching her. "Mrs. Malfoy, you and Draco are required to re-sign this document at the end of the meeting, therefore I _encourage_ you to negotiate any and all suggested changes. Is there _anything_ you'd like to say? Anything you'd like to _contest_?" As she emphasized the words, she looked almost excited.

In thirty-seven years no one had ever asked, much less encouraged, her opinion of anything beyond the cut of a set of robes. Narcissa tried to swallow.

"Draco, what is your opinion of these addendums?" Professor Hipthripple added, looking over at him with a kind smile. "What would you like to say to Mr. Weasley?"

Two things happened simultaneously. First, Draco turned a sickly shade of green. Second, Narcissa was consumed by a cold fury. _No one_ would put her son in this position ever - _ever_ \- again. She turned to the would-be tyrant at the end of the table. "Yes."

Percy Weasley, whose eyes were on his parchments, must have mistaken the softness of her tone for defeat, because he tapped the edges of his parchments into place with a superior smile. "Excellent. If you'll just sign here and here and here and here," he said as he held them up and pointed to various lines, "it will all be official."

"You misunderstand me, Mr. Weasley," she said, her anger making it possible to speak out at long last. "What I mean is, 'Yes', I would like to contest these addendums."

Finally he made eye contact with her. "I beg your pardon?"

A small jolt of electricity shot down her spine, sending goose-bumps along her skin and a tingling sensation to her hands. "I'm familiar with this class of magical document. Nothing added without the signed consent of the prime signatory is in any way binding; in this case that would be," here she looked down, unable to maintain steady eye contact with him any longer, "the Minister for Magic himself."

Unless _they_ signed off on those addendums. Left as it was, the document held no power beyond its original wording. Narcissa wondered if Percy Weasley had actually tried to trick them, or if he'd simply blundered onto the opportunity in his quest for power. In the end she decided on the latter; he was ambitious and full of himself, but he didn't strike her as cunning. She, on the other hand, _was_, and now Draco was safe from his petty intimidations.

"The Minister supports the role of the probation officer fully," he countered. "I've sent him my request and expect to hear from him by Monday morning at the latest."

Mindful of the distinct possibility that anything she said would be held against Draco, Narcissa simply answered, "We understand."

She sensed Draco looking at her and wondered what he was thinking. First her hair, then this - perhaps he'd been right earlier; perhaps she _was_ someone else today. He shifted just then, sliding one foot until the side of his shoe bumped gently against hers.

"Pity you weren't here earlier," offered the headmistress in a smug tone. "I met with the Minister over breakfast to review graduation-day transitions of the eighth years still on probation. You could have asked him then."

Professor Hipthripple cleared her throat loudly. "In light of this information, the document stands in its unamended form and, since there's been no issue with it to this point, is acceptable." She looked at both Narcissa and Draco. "Do you agree?"

They did. The addendums were stricken from the document, and they signed their names, Draco as probationer and Narcissa as parent. Professor Hipthripple signed in her official capacity, and the headmistress as witness to it all. Percy Weasley signed last of all after scrupulously comparing everybody's signatures against those on file, managing to look affronted the entire time.

Finally he pushed back his chair and stood. "Since there is no further business to discuss," here he gathered his parchments and looked around the table, avoiding the Malfoys entirely, "This meeting is adjourned. Good day."

The headmistress rolled her eyes as the door closed behind him. "Pompous upstart." She turned to Professor Hipthripple. "He was the most annoying prefect in the history of Hogwarts. Wrote up more disciplinary notes than the entire staff combined."

"I'm not surprised," mused the professor. "Ambition, delusions of grandeur . . ." She looked thoughtful for a moment. "You know, he reminds me of a young Cornelius Fudge."

The headmistress snorted. Then she turned to Draco. "And _you_!"

He started. "Ma'am?"

"_You_ could learn a thing or two from your mother." She sent an approving glance toward Narcissa.

Draco looked between the two witches, and whatever passed through his head must have been frightening because his eyes widened considerably. "Yes, ma'am."

Professor Hipthripple stood and extended her hand across the table, first to Draco and then to Narcissa. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Malfoy. Your knowledge of magical documents is impressive."

The adrenaline rush was wearing off; Narcissa suddenly felt tired.

Draco was looking down at her with concern. "Are you well, Mother?" He leaned in and studied her face, his own set in a frown.

"I am, darling boy," she assured him in a voice meant only for his ears.

"What we need is tea and biscuits," declared Professor Hipthripple, who had tactfully busied herself with her stack of parchment during the short exchange. "Minerva, would you mind?"

It seemed the headmistress didn't, because she called for a House Elf at once. Meanwhile, Professor Hipthripple Transfigured the long table into a small round one and instructed Draco to rearrange the chairs, and when the transformation was complete she said to him, "And now, if you don't mind, we have a few things to discuss with your mother." She waved her hands and beamed at him. "Shoo!"

Draco wavered, eyes flickering from her to Narcissa and back again.

Professor Hipthripple tried again. "I'm sure your friends are waiting to hear all about your meeting."

Narcissa nodded in agreement. Clearly there was something that needed to be said outside of his presence, and in any case she'd had to have left after the meeting per the terms of her house arrest. "Do as you've been told, Draco."

He leaned in close once more, and when he spoke he seemed to be assuring himself as much as her. "I'll see you in just a few hours." He pushed back his chair and stood, tipping his head respectfully to each witch in turn before he left.

When the office door had closed behind him, Professor Hipthripple spoke again, her thick, sweet voice a balm for the almost physical ache caused by his departure. "Mrs. Malfoy," she said, "are you quite set on returning to the manor until the ceremony? I was hoping you'd consider staying here as my guest instead."

Narcissa hesitated, torn between pride and desire. Did she _want_ to go back to the manor? That was a silly question. But would she _admit_ that? She searched the professor's face for ulterior motive; in the end all she could find was an optimistic sort of decency.

"It's your choice, of course," said the professor. "But we have details of Draco's host family! Minerva and I have been looking forward to telling you about them before we introduce you later today."

A host family they'd found because of another choice Narcissa had made. Choices, she decided, were heady things and worth the price of a little pride. "I'd like that."

_***sips**** G&T**_*****

_***tops up CK's Bulleit and Coke***_

**See you all next Sunday! Mwah,**

**-G-**


	8. Chapter 8: Graduation part 1

**Happy Sunday, peeps! G here. Anyone else going a bit steerwacky as you shelter in place with your loved ones? Chez Glitter is _crazy_. I love my family, but would gladly trade them for a salon visit (hell - even some diet Pepsi) on an hourly basis. Mr G wanders around the entire main floor, running conference calls while dressed in a button-down shirt and boxers. G Junior, an emergency worker, spices up dinner conversations with current C-19 stats (he's our optimist). Captain G should be following his uni lectures online, but I suspect from the wicked gleam in his eye and the swagger in his step that he's actually gaming all the time (and _winning_). Baby G has become our resident cook. When the food's good, it's very very good - but when it's bad, even the dog gags.**

**Enough of that. How about another chapter of my latest idiocy? **

**HP is the sole property of JKR. **

**CoquetteKitten is my alpha-reader. Thanks, CK!**

**The OC D.K. Finnegan is on loan from Palmetto Blue. Thanks, Blue!**

_Hogwarts_

On the morning of graduation day, Hermione stayed in bed far later than usual, hiding from Daphne's astute gaze under the pretense of sleep. So methodical, so _predictable_ was her roommate that Hermione could track her movements sightlessly. First was the hushed exit to the girls' lavatory, then the return and preparation for the day at her small, organized dressing table; then, finally, there was the rustle of bed linens being righted and Daphne's soft voice calling, "It's time to wake up."

But Hermione ignored her because there _was_ no reason to face this particular day, and so she continued her false slumber until finally - _finally_ \- the door shut on Daphne's heels, and she was alone. Then she rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, caught between the desire to remain under the shield of her coverlet and the increasingly urgent demands of her full bladder. When she could ignore it no longer, she heaved herself up.

In the lavatory mirror, after she'd showered under scalding water until her fingers pruned up, she attempted to stare down her reflection. The girl in the mirror was a disappointing opponent, all peaked skin stretched tight over sharp bones with bruise-colored circles under angry eyes, but she won in the end; Hermione had to look away when the mirror-girl's expression began to feel all too familiar.

Back in her room she straightened her bed with a half-hearted flick of her wand and then retrieved a blue dress from her wardrobe. It was the sort of finery purchased with a significant event in mind, the cut and cloth of which hinted at significant cost. Hermione stroked a finger over the textured silk. It had come by Owl Post several months ago accompanied by a note from her mother that simply said, '_Just because I was thinking of you'_, although it had obviously been meant for her graduation day – for her turn at the dais to speak as class representative and then take her rightful place at the head of the queue of graduates.

But somebody else was speaking for the class today, was leading the procession across the dais, while she watched alongside her parents from the audience because _she wasn't even graduating_. She was tempted to wear something else entirely, but the thought of adding yet one more shameful disappointment to the pile growing at the feet of her parents caused her to don the lovely dress.

They'd been their usual progressive selves since hearing the news. '_Can't wait to see you on Saturday'_, her mother had written earlier in the week. '_Professor McGonagall has promised an open Floo between here and school so you can visit regularly until you've finished up. We're bringing you a mobile!'_

'_I video-recorded the Oxford-Cambridge boat race so we can watch it together,'_ her father had promised in a recent note. And then, when she hadn't responded to any of their letters, he'd sent one final Owl during dinner last night: '_Courage, dear heart*.'_

Those words had sent her storming from the Great Hall to the relative peace of the ruined greenhouses, where she hid under the sickly palms and tried not to think of anything in particular. Had she not shown enough _courage_ already? Such easy advice from someone who'd never run or fought for his life or faced monsters all by himself!

Her reflection was regarding her from her dressing table mirror, staring out in gaunt-faced challenge with chin high and eyes blazing. "Go away," Hermione ordered, "or I'll _make_ you." Then, to prove her point, she plied her wet hair with Sleakeazy's, wand-dried it into order, and hid the truth of the mirror-girl behind a heavy Glamour Charm, right down to the word carved into her right forearm.

But still the girl in the mirror mocked her, because no Charm could hide the agony in her expression. Hermione stood abruptly, knocking over her chair, and crossed the room. At the door she whipped back to the dressing table, wand raised. "Bombarda!" The mirror exploded under the force of the Hex.

The act had been building up within her for months, suppressed by the incentive of graduation, but now . . . Now there was no need to hold in the anger that seethed just beneath her skin at all times. It was a heady thought. She eyed the mirror of Daphne's dressing table for a long moment, but any further catharsis was prevented by a knock at the door.

It was Susan Bones. Of _course_ it was Susan; she'd probably sensed an emotional disturbance halfway across the castle and practically flown here to save the day, the sanctimonious cow. "What do you want?" Unable even to look at her, Hermione studied the wall to the right of the half-opened door.

"When you weren't at breakfast, I asked Daphne; she said you were running late. I thought you might like something to eat." Susan lifted the covered tray in her hands.

Hermione forced herself to meet Susan's eyes. They were full of kind concern, the way they always were. She wanted to poke them out. "I'm not hungry."

As if she'd anticipated such an answer Susan nodded with a smile. "I'll just leave it in here in the hall, then. In case you change your mind." She turned as if to do just that, then paused. "I wish things could have been different today, Hermione."

"Let's not fool ourselves, _Susan_," she mocked in false sincerity. "The only world in which _you_ place ahead of _me_ is one where Reconciliation is the _only_ standard of measure." It occurred to her she'd said it aloud and, much like the destruction of the mirror, it pleased her.

But Susan didn't so much as flinch. "Reconciliation does have a lot to do with the circumstances, but it has nothing to do with competition."

"Don't try to lie; you're no good at it. You've been working toward this the entire year with your undying _caring_ and _loyalty_. Gods, you're such a Hufflepuff! It's so easy, though, helping people and working for good - for _points_ in the _safety _of an _Unplottable castle_!

"That isn't-"

The satisfaction gained from her initial jab was wearing off and with it the thin veneer of her control. "Where were you when some of us were being tortured!" she demanded through clenched teeth. "Where are _your_ scars!"

Susan stood unwavering. If anything, she looked even more understanding. "You have every right to be angry, Hermione."

But Susan's compassion was driving Hermione closer and closer to the edge of something too terrifying even for _her_ brand of courage. "You should go," she said as she shut the door in Susan's face. Then she folded to the floor into a pile of angular limbs and bunched up silk, and she stared at nothing in particular for a long time.

In the end, responsibility and fear of disappointing her mother and father got her to her feet. She Charmed the wrinkles from her dress and repaired her mirror, careful to avoid her reflection, and turned to the door. Hide the scars, smooth the wrinkles – that was all magic was for, now: keeping up appearances.

She became aware of the faintest hint of bacon in the air. _Susan's tray_. With a disgusted huff she cracked open the door, admitting more of the glorious smell. Her stomach grumbled. Surely there'd be food at the reception, but that was _hours_ from now. Setting aside her repugnance, she pulled the tray inside her room and shut the door again.

There, underneath the cover, was a carefully prepared plate of Hermione's favorite breakfast foods - fruit and a bacon sandwich - that delivered a twinge of what could only be described as guilt. But she was hungry, and Susan need never know she'd accepted the gesture.

She groaned at the first mouthful of butter and bacon even as she recoiled at the realization that Susan Bones knew her so well. But the thought faded when she popped a piece of pineapple into her mouth and its juice washed away the bitterness at the back of her throat. She devoured the contents of the plate and drank the tea, prepared exactly to her liking, and when she was done she felt . . . not _better_, perhaps, but fortified.

A tiny internal voice whispered that perhaps it was the result of Susan's kindness; Hermione gave an inward sneer at the suggestion, arguing that it was simply a matter of protein and carbohydrates performing their natural role in regulating blood sugar. _Everyone_ felt better after eating bacon, for Godric's sake!

When she'd scoured the plate of every last crumb, she looked at the wall clock and sighed. It was time. She left her room, hurrying through the common room in a determined _swoosh_ of silk. Just outside the entrance to the eighth years' tower, she tripped over an unexpected obstacle and would have fallen on her knees had not a hand caught hers at just the right moment.

A young man with spectacles scrambled to his feet and grinned down at her. "Is that any way to greet an old friend?"

"Harry?" And because Harry was the _one_ person whose wellbeing was more essential to her than her own, she _became_ happy. For him. "Harry!" she shrieked, throwing her arms about him and squeezing him nearly to death. "What on earth are you doing here?!"

He gave a happy laugh. "What d'you _think_, 'Mione? I'm here to see _you_!" Then he added in what could only be described as loving rebuke, "I missed you last weekend, by the way."

Ignoring the pointed comment - no, she hadn't attended the seventh year graduation, because it would have meant hours of pretending to be someone she no longer was - she let go of him and stepped back to examine him closely in the torchlight. "You look well. Hang on." She prodded his middle with a curious finger. "Have you put on weight?"

Harry gaped at her for a few seconds before making a sound of outrage. "No!" At her incredulous expression he amended, "Maybe." Then he shrugged. "Fine! I've gained a little weight, but it's _all_ muscle."

She couldn't help but snort. "Especially that wobbly bit under your chin."

"Hey!" But he couldn't keep a straight face. "Sirius's cookery lessons are going _really_ well."

"So he's progressed beyond burnt toast and spoilt milk," she teased.

Harry's letters, infrequent though they tended to be, kept her informed of far more than his work as a junior Auror and his relationship with Ginny. They _brimmed_ with details of life at Grimmauld Place - of Sirius's forays into various hobbies, his turbulent dating life, and of his devotion to Harry's welfare. He'd taken over the kitchen the moment the two had returned to the house after the battle of Hogwarts and, but for Harry's early birthday present of cookery lessons in Diagon Alley, would surely have poisoned them both.

Harry beamed at her. "Ask him yourself; he's here."

"He- What?" Until that point her happiness had felt almost genuine; with those words the emotion threatened to pop with all the fragility of a soap bubble. "Does he _know_?!"

He looked puzzled. "I didn't know it was a secret."

Hermione wrestled her composure back into place and managed a small smile. "Of course it's not. I just- Never mind." She hooked an arm through Harry's and took a step into the corridor. "Come on; let's get this day over with."

He balked. "Everything okay, 'Mione?"

There was love and concern in every line of his face, and it tugged at her heart because it was right and acceptable. For a split second she was tempted to tell him that _no_, everything was _not_ okay – but at that moment Harry unconsciously ran a hand through his hair, revealing the scar on his forehead. "You know you can tell me anything," he said quietly.

She let go of his arm and hugged him once more, using the opportunity to hide from his gaze while she tucked her emotions back into place. "Everything's fine, Harry. _Promise_." And when he pulled back with a skeptical look she added, "I'm not happy with the way things . . . _worked out_. Believe me when I say that Reconciliation is even stupider than Divination."

"I think it's done a lot of good," he contended.

She tried not to bristle, but her body stepped out of their embrace of its own volition. "Yes, well of course you like the idea; you got out of it on a technicality! I'd have considered dropping out of school, too, if I'd known what a dog and pony show this year would turn out to be."

"I took the class privately," he replied, slipping his hands into his trouser pockets and studying his shoes, "with Sirius. He wanted me to be free of the past once and for all."

The revelation left Hermione speechless for the span of several seconds. "What? Why didn't you tell me!"

Harry shrugged. "Didn't seem like something you'd want to talk about. I mean, you've been pretty vocal in your opinions of it."

"If I'd known you'd become a mindless puppet of the Ministry, I'd have kept them to myself." She couched the words in a bantering tone. "Tell me - has it _changed your life_?"

"It's been difficult, but in a good way." He regarded her for a long moment. "You're sure you're okay?"

Suddenly Hermione felt very exposed, and she wished the cover of the Glamour Charm extended to her emotions. "Absolutely." The focus needed to be shifted elsewhere. "I'm really glad you're here."

He relaxed somewhat. "I'm always here for you."

It wasn't true, but that wasn't his fault. Hermione linked arms with him once again. "We need to get going. Come on."

They walked in silence along the corridor until they came to the first moving staircase. As they waited for it to shift in their direction, she offered, "I've written letters of official protest, you know."

He gave a loud, genuine bark of laughter that immediately lightened the mood. "Of _course_ you did!"

She devoured the surfeit of his happiness like a long-anticipated feast, and then it was far easier to grin up at him. "Of course I did," she echoed, "A_nd_," she pointed a stern finger at him, "I expect to be working in the Ministry by Wednesday at the very latest."

The staircase slid into place. "Sounds like you have it all worked out." Harry stepped onto it, pulling her along.

"You know me," she parried. "Always five steps ahead of everyone else. Except when I'm not graduating." Regretting those words at once she added, "_Kidding_."

"Hermione," Harry said gently, "what's going on? This isn't like you; you're . . . you're _angry_."

"_I have every right to be!_" The outburst sounded shrill even to her own ears. She tried to unloop her arm from his but Harry resisted, taking her hand in a firm grip.

He stopped abruptly, causing her to fall against him gracelessly, and pulled her into his arms. Hermione made a fleeting attempt to resist, but here was shelter and comfort like she hadn't felt in far too long, and there, halfway down the staircase, she sagged against him in temporary defeat. Finally he sighed against the top of her head. "Let me help you."

'_Yes,'_ part of her being replied, '_help me!'_ Another, much larger, part argued angrily, '_It's my job to take care of YOU!'_ Aloud she sighed, "I can take care of myself, Harry."

He released his hold but took her hand in his once more. "We should get going."

She gave a reluctant nod and clung to his hand. "Stay with me today?"

Harry closed his eyes. He seemed to be having difficulty swallowing. "Until the very end," he said. "We're a part of each other."

Two more staircases and three corridors later, he stopped them once more. "I should probably warn you that Sirius brought a date."

If he was trying to distract her, it worked. "Good grief, Harry! There's limited seating, you know! You can't just bring a bunch of people when you aren't even invited _yourself_!"

"Oh, I don't think that'll be a problem," he said, a mysterious expression on his face. "And there's another thing."

She rolled her eyes. "I don't want to know."

They rounded the corner into the Entrance Hall to find it filled with visitors of all ages. Parents, grandparents, and other relatives stood in small groups, speaking with their graduates, and small children ran about. Hermione's parents were easily found in the crowd; her mother's smart trouser suit stood in stark contrast to the attire of the witches present, but her composure was that of a woman at home anywhere she was upsetting the status quo. Her father- Well. He was at home wherever her mother was. They stood with their backs to her, their bodies moving in the subtle rhythm of conversation, and once again Hermione hesitated, caught between the need to see them and the desire to run and hide.

Harry squeezed her hand. "Probably shouldn't wait too much longer," he said uncertainly. When she looked up at him with eyes narrowed in suspicion, he continued, "I left Sirius with them. He's probably run out of polite conversation by now."

She was all too well aware of Sirius's reliance on bawdy humor in social situations, having spent the previous summer dodging his company at post-war celebration gatherings. And now he was with her _parents_. "What have you _done_, Harry!" she hissed.

He shifted in a distinctly uncomfortable way. "Errrrr, there's something else you _really _should know."

But Hermione had just caught sight of Sirius and a dark-haired woman, half-hidden as they were by her father's significant height and broad shoulders. "Who's that with Sirius?"

"His date - the one you didn't want to hear about."

"Is that-" She may have been stuck at school for the past eleven and a half months, but she read _The Prophet_ regularly. She tugged at Harry's hand and began moving forward. "That's D.K. Finnegan."

Now it was Harry who seemed reticent to join the group. He pulled back against her grip and slowed their advance to a crawl. "You can see why a few extra seats wasn't a problem. Look, 'Mione-"

She turned with a warning glare and yanked at his hand yet again. "Do _not_ try to tell me Kingsley's personal secretary is dating Sirius Black." Apparently it was the case, though; Sirius threw his arm around the woman's shoulders just then, pulling her closer to him, and she glanced up at him with a warm smile.

Harry still resisted. "Would you please listen to me? _There's_ _something else_!"

There was a note of warning in his voice that triggered Hermione's guard, but she was distracted by a sudden awareness of the unique opportunity before her. "This is _perfect_." She took a deep breath and straightened her posture, jutting out her chin in determination, "Talk about having the direct ear of the Minister!"

"That's not-"

"Come _on_, Harry!" Her resolve galvanized by the idea, she chivvied him across the hall at top speed. But their forward progress revealed yet another participant in the conversation – an elegant woman who stood next to Sirius and yet, somehow, completely alone. "Why is _she_ talking with my mother?"

Harry tugged at her hand yet again. "Because-"

She silenced him with an elbow jab to his stomach. "Shhhh!" Hackles raised, she slowed her approach until, by the time she was within earshot of the group, she was barely moving forward.

"It's really no trouble, Mrs. Malfoy," her mother was saying. "We're quite pleased to offer Draco a place to stay for the summer."

It was Narcissa Malfoy who saw her first, and while her reply was directed to her parents, her eyes were fixed on Hermione. "Thank you."

* * *

It took Narcissa some time to gather enough courage to steal a sideways glance at her cousin, only to find him doing the same to her. She dropped her eyes and blushed at having been caught.

"Cousin." His voice was lower and rougher than she remembered.

Narcissa nodded as she tried unsuccessfully to swallow. As if by silent agreement, they turned slightly from the rest of their party, speaking quietly. Sirius shuffled his feet. "I understand he isn't quite the little shit he once was."

Even as a boy Sirius' dark eyes had had a piercing quality; now they seemed to slip into her soul and read her deepest secrets. Had he mastered Legilimency since their shared childhood? The thought made her flinch violently despite her best efforts. As if he'd read her mind, he frowned. "I'd never . . . _Narcissa_, there are still honorable wizards in the world - or did he beat that belief out of you?"

She held his gaze again, willing him to see the strange new seeds of courage that had only recently begun sprouting within her. "Draco has always been a good boy," she whispered, hiding her trembling hands in the folds of her gown. "To me, he's _always_ been good."

His frown deepened. "We should speak later, just the two of us."

"Why," she demanded softly, "are you even speaking to me?"

He looked at her one more time before turning back to the others, and this time his dark eyes were bright with unshed tears. "You saved Harry. Let the bastard rot in hell, 'Cissa, and try to remember the witch you once were."

*the quote '_Courage, dear heart'_ is from C. S. Lewis' _Voyage of the Dawn Treader_, which has been my favorite comfort book since childhood.


	9. Chapter 9 : Graduation : part 2

**JKR owns all; CoquetteKitten alphas this; G the Headmaster promised me cookies for another chapter, and I demand payment in full.**

_Great Hall_

_Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry_

"That's not your seat, Greg."

"Well, whose is it, then! It's not like they're labeled!"

Years of experience prompted Draco's response. He turned to the others waiting to fill the alphabetically ordered row and stared them down. "Goyle's with me."

"S'okay," said Ernie Macmillan, "we can sort out our order when we're called up." He shuffled past them into the row.

Megan Jones nodded peaceably, as did Daphne; Su Li and Morag MacDougal still looked slightly troubled at the breach in protocol. They turned to Longbottom with a questioning look, but he dismissed it with a wave of his hand. "Nah, it's good," he agreed, gesturing for the four witches to enter first.

It was obvious Greg was embarrassed. "Thanks."

Longbottom took the seat on the other side of him. "We blokes need to stick together, is all."

Draco turned to study the gathering crowd. There was a striking absence of animosity in the audience, overall - no threatening glances, no empty seats separating factions like there would have been before . . .

Except next to his mother. She sat alone for several long minutes, her dignified posture belying her vulnerability, until a small, round-faced woman who could only be Mrs. Bones stood from a familial group toward the back of the hall and made her way forward, pausing by his mother with a timid smile. He let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding as his mother gave a dignified nod and the woman sat to her left.

No one took the seats to her right for a long while, the empty chairs mocking Draco from across the room, until an oddly dressed couple approached that section. He shifted to get a better look - the woman wore some sort of modified men's robes and she looked quite good in them. The man's robes were oddly cut as well; Draco had just decided they were foreigners when Granger joined them, towing Harry Potter in what appeared to be a death grip.

It was obvious who the man and woman were, then; the woman bore a strong physical resemblance to Granger while the man had the same mop of curly hair. Draco felt vaguely ashamed for not having guessed right the first time. Of _course_ they were her parents - they practically had the word _Muggle_ stamped across their foreheads.

The next few seconds were surreal. The Granger group paused at his mother's row and filed in. Mr. Granger took the seat beside her and began speaking with her, and Mrs. Granger, who sat next to her husband, leaned forward to join the brief conversation. Granger all but dragged Potter past them to the two empty seats at the tail end of the group. She looked positively ill and was looking everywhere but at her parents.

Draco watched in stunned curiosity. Had they been introduced in the Entrance Hall by a mutual friend? The existence of such a person seemed unlikely unless it had been a member of staff . . . Oh, _that_ was probably it - Professor Hipthripple was no doubt in full Reconciliation form amongst all the parents. Hang on; that couldn't be right - as soon as he'd left the headmistress's office this morning, the professor was going to introduce his mother to his host-

_No._ He thought quickly. It was far more likely the Boneses had agreed to house him for the summer; perhaps Mrs. Bones had met the Grangers and invited them to sit with her out of common courtesy. It was exactly the sort of thing Susan would do, and it stood to reason her mother would do the same. But the Grangers weren't talking with Mrs. Bones, were they - they were chatting with _his mother_. Which could only mean they'd been previously introduced. And then there was that brief exchange after they'd sat down, and Granger's expression . . .

As if to confirm the theory, she whipped her head around just then and shot him a murderous glare.

_Salazar protect them all_. To compound the situation, it occurred to him he'd checked out Granger's mother. Mercifully distracted by the sound of the doors closing at the back of the Great Hall, Draco shifted from one unreality to another. He was about to _graduate_.

The convocation passed in a blur of sensations as he grappled with the idea. A month ago he'd have said there was nothing he wanted more than to cross that dais; now he wasn't so sure he could do it. Crowds had never been his forte, but these days they triggered a panicky urge to flee.

The headmistress was welcoming the Minister for Magic - guest speaker for this unique event - to the lectern. Draco surveyed the crowd out of the corner of his eye. Would it maintain such neutrality when he stood on the dais? It hadn't during his trial – there'd been a steady murmur of disapproval the entire time and, when his sentence was pronounced and it was only a year of probation and mandatory completion of his schooling, more than one voice had been raised in angry protest. Afterward, outside the Ministry, a mob had tried to-

Beside him Greg shifted, his massive frame far too big for an average-sized chair. The movement diverted Draco's attention just enough to allow escape from the memory, but it also pinned his right shoulder to the back of his chair. He nudged his friend, but Greg had dozed off. At the lectern, the Minister cleared his throat. "First," he began, "let us take a moment to reflect upon those not with us today – the members of this class who died for their beliefs, their parentage, and with unassailable valor in battle . . . "

Fuck. The desire to escape was now coupled with the onset of all the symptoms of one of his episodes. The faces of the fallen rose from his perfect memory in accusation. No, he'd never killed anyone – but he'd witnessed more savagery and death than anyone else his age, and he'd done nothing to stop it. How many times had he fallen for the ruse of a father-son outing, only to- He squeezed shut his eyes to block out the images that sprang to mind unbidden.

Dread began to curl around his limbs like poison mist. He took a deep breath. One of the female students sitting nearby had on enough perfume to confuse a werewolf; its cloying scent caused his stomach to roil and his brain to leap to another association. Suddenly he was in a different great hall, still pinned down, still nauseated by an overpowering scent, only this time his left arm was bared to the elbow and he was begging-

Greg snorted in his sleep, and Draco would have jumped out of his skin had not his shoulder still been pinned down. Actually, he probably would have _hugged_ Greg at that point. Freed from his brain once more, he looked for something else on which to focus while he waited for his heart to stop racing. He latched onto the sound of the Minister's deep, resonant voice and took another deep breath.

He could do this.

" . . . and so we look ahead to a world made brighter for all of us by the power of reconciliation - of honesty, accountability, and finally peace . . . "

He could feel Granger's death-glare boring into the side of his head. Oh, gods –- how much did her parents know of his past? He'd clung to the illusion of safety offered by Hogwarts this past school year, but now it was slipping from his white-knuckled grip. Reconciliation was beautiful in _theory_ and, therefore, in academia. Outside these walls retribution for all he'd seen and done –- whether by choice or not –- awaited him. The collar of his robes rubbed against his sweat-slicked neck.

He couldn't do this.

The Minister was now gesturing to a seat in the front row of the student section. "And now, ladies and gentlemen, please join me in welcoming the eighth year class representative, Miss Susan Bones."

Susan made her way up the dais steps and across the platform. She looked nervous but prepared as she set her notes on the lectern and directed a tremulous smile at the audience. "When I was a little girl, my aunt often told me, 'character is defined by what we do when no one is looking' . . . "

The audience hummed its approval, and she continued what was probably an excellent speech, but Draco perseverated on that quotation. What would he do - what would he _have done_ \- without the spectatorship that dominated his life? For once his mind had no ready answer.

Susan was done all too quickly, and then the headmistress was calling forth the first student while the rest of the class straightened in anticipation. "Where am I supposed to be?" rumbled Greg.

A class of twenty-eight students only took up so much time; Draco squandered most of it trying not to think of the terrible acts by which he'd defined himself in full view of nearly every person present. He stood automatically with the rest of his row and followed to the side aisle.

"Gregory Goyle." At Professor Hipthripple's prompt, Greg climbed the steps and lumbered across the platform to where the headmistress waited with her armful of scrolls. The line shifted forward as Greg shook her hand, then the professor's, and finally the Minister's. The audience applauded him, and Greg looked incredibly relieved as he returned to his seat.

Seven students, and then it would be his turn to stand however briefly before a crowd that for all its current goodwill might just as easily revile him given the opportunity. Except for his mother –- and she made herself equally vulnerable by sitting there for him and him alone. He squared his shoulders and lifted his chin in determination.

He could do this.

"Daphne Greengrass."

Six. The thought of his mother led to one of the Grangers. What reason did they have for agreeing to help someone who'd so relentlessly persecuted their daughter? Because he had; he'd made every year of school hell for her, and all for whatever approval he could garner from his- He tugged down the right sleeve of his robes, clamping the edge in his fingers.

"Megan Jones."

Five. A familiar feeling began to creep over Draco; his hands started to tingle and his head felt as though it might drift off his shoulders. He sucked in a lungful of air.

Li crossed the dais, then Longbottom, then MacDougal, then Macmillan, all in what seemed to be seconds. Professor Hipthripple's voice suddenly seemed twice amplified as she called, "Draco Malfoy."

His hand lifted the hem of his robes automatically; his feet found the stairs of their own accord. Twenty steps to the headmistress, who was watching him closely. There was a roaring in his ears. Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen . . . His shoes clacked the count across the wooden platform . . . Thirteen, twelve, eleven. . . He passed along the long row of faculty and staff. . . . Seven, six, five . . . Professor Snape's empty chair, reserved for him even in death, drew and held his attention. He lost track of his steps as a wave of vertigo washed over him.

But the headmistress was directly ahead now, offering deliverance in the form of an outstretched hand; Draco managed one last uncoordinated step and took hold of her strong, gnarled grip. She regarded him sternly for a fraction of a second and then, as she passed him along to Professor Hipthripple, murmured, "You're not on trial today, Mr. Malfoy."

Apparently he wasn't; in the time it took to walk from the headmistress to the professor, Draco realized the roaring in his ears had nothing at all to do with the audience, which was now applauding him, albeit quietly. The professor beamed at him in genuine delight when he shook her hand, and the Minister gave him a firm nod, and then he was descending the steps on the far side of the dais and crossing in front of it to his seat in the student section.

He stole a glance at his mother as he edged past the others in his row. Had she looked dignified before? Now she looked downright regal, her head high and her shoulders thrown back in triumph as she stared straight ahead. Just as he was about to sit she turned her head marginally and caught his gaze with shining eyes, and she smiled. Only it wasn't just a smile - it was love and devotion and _pride_, and all for him.

Draco's knees were suddenly weak; he gave her as confident a smile as he could and sank into his chair, all too aware that the current streak of good things in his life must soon be, as dictated by experience, counterbalanced by the very, _very_ bad. It was just one more thing to avoid thinking about, and so he spent the remainder of the ceremony mentally listing antidotes refuting the validity of Golpalott's Third Law.


	10. Chapter 10 : Reception

**Happy Bunny Day, peeps! No, I did not forget you, but we have been Having Adventures here. Yesterday was yard cleanup day here at chez Glitter, and Mr G stirred up a rabbit's nest while cutting down ornamental grass. As you can imagine, Glitteratti was all about those damned baby bunnies - she promptly killed three and brought them all to my feed, proud terrier that she is. Baby G managed to collect the other five bunnies and made an incubator for them. She has been feeding them heavy cream around the clock. Bunnies for bunny day! It would be great, except that as of late last night, we're in the middle of a snowstorm. The bunnies were fine in the garage last night, but something tells my finely-tuned Glitter senses that those little buggers are going to wind up in the laundry room later today. Which means we will have a well-groomed predator and five juicy little meat-blobs in one environment. Can anyone else hear the emMission Impossible/em theme playing in their head?**

**On a completely different note, this story has earned an interesting comment about the accuracy in details of PTSD and the treatment thereof. Am I a mental health expert, Dear Readers? Nein. Do I write fanfiction? Ja. Fanfic writer - fanfic story. Don't like? It's not required reading - go find something you do like.**

_Saturday Afternoon_

_Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry_

_Unplottable Site_

_Scotland_

By two o'clock, all Jeanne wanted was to be home in the breakfast nook with a stiff gin and tonic and BBC Two. The staff of Hogwarts in charge of greeting them had been very eager to meet the Muggle parents of Hermione Granger, Order of Merlin First Class, and welcomed them to the school with fanfare and a slightly superior air, suggesting the academic wizarding world's opinion of Muggle England involved, at best, backward chaos and, at worst, a civilization of Cro-Magnons. It wasn't that they were unkind in the least, but they seemed intent on pointing out to the Grangers how magic made life so much more advanced.

"You see?" asked a plump, well-meaning witch with wild grey curls who wore robes that very much resembled an oversized Victorian carpetbag. "We can harness magic to do all kinds of everyday tasks!" She flicked her wand, uttered an incantation, and a nearby door slammed shut.

Jeanne was very tempted to point out that the door could just as easily have been closed with a good shove. Magic, in her opinion, was a poor substitute for technology, and the wizarding world a rather shabby place lit by medieval torches and populated by a people who seemed to have gotten wedged in time several hundred years previously. It needed electricity, central heating, and for its women to dress with the bloody times. Ed, of course, thought it was all marvelous.

The relief she'd experienced when they'd finally been handed over to Sirius Black, whom they'd met the previous summer, and his lovely girlfriend Deirdre Kathleen Finnegan was only heightened by his roguish sense of humor and the fact that DK, as she insisted they call her, turned out to be a half-blood witch whose father was very much a Muggle. Jeanne had just begun to let down her guard when Professor Hipthripple (the only staff member they'd met who seemed to have a solid grasp of Muggle culture) arrived with two more people. "Dr. and Dr. Granger, what a pleasure it is to meet you in person at last!" she'd said as she shook their hands.

Then she'd turned to the tall, pale woman at her side and the even taller and impossibly paler young man. "I'd like to introduce you to Madame Narcissa Malfoy and her son, Draco."

At their arrival, a strange tension seemed to settle over their small group that seemed to have little to do with the Malfoys' reserved demeanor nor the fact that Ed's project looked as though he were attending his own funeral.

DK Finnegan and the professor battled the strain valiantly, giving the Grangers an abbreviated lecture on the history of Hogwarts. Jeanne did her best to pretend it wasn't there even as she looked from face to face, searching for clues. It seemed strongest between Sirius and the Malfoy woman, although the boy was practically vibrating with anxiety.

First the professor was called away, and then Hermione arrived, and less than a minute later DK had to excuse herself on official business in her capacity as secretary to the Minister, Sirius trotting after her like a devoted dog, and suddenly the remaining five of them were trapped in the most awkward silence Jeanne had ever felt.

"Well," said Ed. "I don't know about the rest of you, but I'd like to get a good seat in the great hall." He looked around the group. "Shall we?"

The boy left to find his seat with the other graduates, and Hermione-

The very thought of her daughter made Jeanne's head pound. Hermione –- for whom they'd waited nearly an hour before the ceremony –- had proven every word of the headmistress's descriptions of her true; she was silent except when forced to answer direct questions, made only fleeting eye contact, and used Harry as a shield to prevent all physical contact, practically hiding behind him. She sat as far away from them as possible during the ceremony and, the moment the crowd was dismissed to the reception set up by the lake, vanished without so much as a by-your-leave.

"Lovely day for an outdoor party," Ed remarked as they exited the castle.

Jeanne struggled against the temptation to blame the entire situation on their daughter. If nothing else, she could have helped with the bloody conversation, she thought for the hundredth time. I have nothing in common with these people! She sighed inwardly. The Malfoys weren't trying to be difficult; Mrs. Malfoy was far too well-bred for that, and her solemn son was equally civil. Still, there were several pink elephants lounging about, not the least of which was the fact that both of them were currently serving probationary sentences for war-related actions.

"It is indeed." Mrs. Malfoy seemed the sort of woman who preferred others to do the talking, but she was gracious. "Such weather is unseasonable for this time of year."

Jeanne, who'd never had the patience for small talk, merely smiled and nodded. The boy, too, said little; he seemed to spend much of their walk to the reception using his body to shelter his mother from the crowd.

Ed was perfectly at ease as he nattered on, but Jeanne was ready to scream by the time they reached a table at the outskirts of the reception. Fate intervened in her favor, then, as it became obvious the Malfoys were reticent to join the small throng at the serving stalls. "Why don't Ed and I just fill a few plates while you save this table?" she said far too eagerly, all but pulling him from the table and into the small throng of people.

He was in his element, a boy on an adventure of a lifetime. "This place is just marvelous -– it's beyond what Hermione described to us!" He was particularly interested in the petting zoo that had been set up by the Hogwarts groundskeeper. "There's an actual hippogriff, Jeannie! Can you imagine?"

"I can imagine it's extremely dangerous," she argued as they filed through the queue. "Ed, put something healthy on your dish."

He juggled his heavily laden plates and added yet another chocolate biscuit to one. "They're magical sweets, sweetheart; they're probably good for us!"

"Do you know what else is good for you?" She batted his hand away from a platter labeled 'Cauldron Cakes'. "Listening to your wife."

He had the nerve to chuckle and take one anyway. "It's not for me, love. The boy looks hungry."

Jeanne glanced to their table on the perimeter of the gathering. There, under the shade of an enormous oak, the Malfoys sat alone with their backs to the tree trunk, their elegant deportment almost rigid. "And afraid."

"A perfectly reasonable response, if all that the headmistress told us is true," he murmured. "So what do you think?"

She thought a lot of things, none of which needed to be said aloud. "I think you're right; the boy looks hungry." Following her husband's noble lead, she began piling her plate. "So give him healthy food, you dozy muppet!"

They made their way back, smiling and nodding as they went with the confidence of two people uncowed by unfamiliar places or large crowds, but every so often Ed craned his neck as if in search of something.

"She'll join us in a bit," Jeanne said after the fifth time he'd slowed to look behind them. "You know how close she is with Harry."

Ed scowled. "Doesn't that girlfriend of his need attention?"

"She's not here," she reminded him, urging him along with a nod toward their destination. "She graduated last weekend with the other seventh years, and there was no eighth year in her family."

"That's nonsense - what about her brother, emmmm, whatsisbucket?" Ed scrunched his forehead. "The one Hermione dated for about two days last spring."

"Ron didn't come back to Hogwarts; remember?"

He actually growled. "Well, it would be a lot more convenient for me if he had. Then he'd be graduating today, his sister would be with him, and Harry would be with them."

Jeanne chuckled as she tried to imagine Ron Weasely having any kind of influence in their daughter's life. She'd met him just the once, but it had been obvious he was no match for Hermione. "Ed-"

"I want to see her," he protested, slowing again. "I haven't even had a chance to hug her."

She thought it highly unlikely that would happen anytime soon. "You do realize your current project and his mother are part of the reason she's elsewhere."

"Hermione loves my projects!" Ed looked over his shoulder in the direction of the lake, but he matched her quickened pace. "We both know it's not us she's upset with; not really."

"Give her time." She understood his frustration; she also understood Hermione's evasion tactics. "She'll come to us when she's ready, and it will be all the better because we were patient."

"Right," he sighed. His expression morphed into one of resolve. "Well, no use bringing a dark cloud back with us." And he turned the conversation to lighter things for the remainder of their short trek.

The boy stood when they reached the table. Jeanne opened her mouth as she set her plate down, ready to inform him of her views on archaic subjugative behaviors, but snapped it shut at the sound of Ed clearing his throat. Grinning impishly, he pulled out her chair. "My dear." He turned to the Malfoys and gestured to the heaping plates. "We may have gone a bit overboard."

She barely quelled the urge to curse him out. On the one hand, Ed's social graces were a thing of beauty; on the other, they had their historical roots in the bigotry of sexism - and no man would ever wield such power over Jeanne Granger. "Thank you, darling."

Mrs. Malfoy gave Ed a dignified nod, and the boy regarded them both with eyes that were far too old for his age, but neither raised a hand to the food. Jeanne gave an inward sigh. This –- this is what came from good breeding and all its refinement: the damned manners game! Then she realized she just might play and put Ed in his place in the process. "Please," she said, smiling brightly as she selected an egg mayo finger sandwich. "Join us."

The boy waited until his mother did the same, and then he followed suit. Jeanne waited until Ed was just about to pop something into his mouth and then exclaimed, "We completely forgot drinks!"

Unfortunately, Ed looked positively delighted at the news as he dropped his sandwich and sprang to his feet. "A plight I'm happy to remedy. Any special requests?"

Jeanne pinned him with a narrow-eyed glare. Oh, he wasn't going to get away that easily. "Something incredibly time-consuming to mix up and difficult to carry."

But Ed was Ed; he couldn't help but be amused by her fits of pique, and so he laughed outright and made a dramatic and rather old-fashioned obeisance. "My lady, I live to serve." He looked to the boy. "It sounds like I might need assistance; mind helping me, son?"

As he left in unmistakable victory and looking every bit the irrepressible boy she'd fallen in love with so long ago, she couldn't help but laugh, too. "Saint Edward indeed." Feeling Mrs. Malfoy's eyes on her, she waved the comment away. "It's a Muggle thing."

Mrs. Malfoy blinked. "Saints aren't exclusive to the Muggle world."

Jeanne paused to consider the surrealism of the moment: here she was, nibbling finger sandwiches across from a probationer with a day-pass to her son's graduation who was dressed throat to foot in what could easily be a period costume and seemed perfectly content to allow an interloper to play host in her own world. She cursed her impulsive choice to send Ed off and gave another heavy inward sigh. Small talk it was, then. "Yes – you have that hospital named after one."

"Saint Mungo existed in both worlds." Narcissa Malfoy dropped her eyes for a second. "To you he was Saint Kentigern."

"Founder of the Glasgow cathedral," mused Jeanne. Perhaps this wouldn't be so difficult after all - history was far more interesting than the weather. "He was a Muggle-born wizard?"

"He was a good man," Mrs. Malfoy countered. "Sometimes that's all that matters."

With those words the atmosphere shifted palpably, and Jeanne stared incredulously at the woman beside her. "And my daughter? Was she bullied and hunted like an animal because she wasn't a good girl?"

"I didn't mean . . . "

Her anger -– wild, terrible thing that it was -– had been stirred, but this was neither the time nor place for such confrontation. She took several deep, slow breaths before she was able to manage, "I'm sorry; I'm very protective of my family."

"Why should you apologize?" Mrs. Malfoy asked quietly, face set in a polite mask. "Don't all mothers live to protect?"

Such a question was dangerous; it threatened to dredge up dark things and even darker emotions, therefore a change of subject was in order. Jeanne craned her neck and just caught sight of Ed and the boy as they stood at the beverage table. "Tell me about your son."

For the first time since they'd been introduced at the reception, Mrs. Malfoy dropped her reserve. Her grey eyes glowed, and her mouth curved into a hint of a smile as she described a young man of outstanding academic talent and excellent character. "He's a good boy," she concluded. "He'll be a good house-guest."

Jeanne chewed at the inside of her mouth. The term 'house-guest' sounded a bit cozy in light of the circumstances, and the only reason she didn't take issue with the reference to 'good character' was because the headmistress had vouched for the boy. In the end she merely said, "I'm sure he will," and busied herself by crumbling a biscuit.

Mrs. Malfoy took another finger sandwich. "Thank y-"

"Don't."

Mrs. Malfoy flinched, hand frozen in midair.

"No," Jeanne hurried on, "let me explain. If I were you, I'd feel beholden to me, and I'd hate myself for being in such a position. I don't want that for you." She raised her eyes from the half-destroyed biscuit. "Ed is a good man, and he likes to help people. And my job is to . . . " To protect him. She shook off the thought and pressed on. "I'm not just doing this because it's important to him; I believe your son deserves a second chance." And when Mrs. Malfoy met her gaze, she added firmly, "Everyone deserves a second chance."

The drinks, when they arrived in the form of a pitcher of punch and four glasses, weren't elaborate at all. Jeanne peered up at Ed in curiosity, only to receive a look that promised an explanation later. Seeing that this wasn't the appropriate climate for progressive feminism, she continued in the role of hostess and served their guests.

"Let's raise a toast," Ed suggested, squeezing her hand under the table. "To . . . " He looked around the small group expectantly.

Mrs. Malfoy answered first, shocking Jeanne with sudden self-assurance. "Second chances."

The words echoed around the table, and slowly the shared food and drink worked their own kind of magic: stilted yet steady conversation. No, the Malfoys had never been to Cambridge. Yes, Draco had looked over their list of house rules and agreed to abide by them during his stay. No, Mrs. Malfoy would not be able to visit, but she planned to Floo regularly. Yes, Draco was packed and ready to leave after the reception. No, he'd never had a dog.

The boy was infallibly polite yet preoccupied during the dialogue, however, and eventually he cast his somber grey gaze around the group. "Will you please excuse me? I'd like to join my friend for a few minutes."

Jeanne and Ed looked in the direction he indicated. There, eating by himself at one of the massive tables, was an equally massive boy. Mrs. Malfoy's stately manner underwent a rapid change, and she stood with an unmistakably maternal bearing.

"Go on," urged Ed, shooing them both with his hands. "We'll meet up. Now what," he added softly as the Malfoys walked away, "do you make of Draco?"

Any potential speculation was curtailed by the arrival of Harry Potter with Hermione in tow. "I think this one belongs to you," he said with an easy grin. "I'm off to find some food." He strode away quickly, calling over his shoulder, "Think about what I said, 'Mione!"

There was a slight pause as Hermione eyed them warily, back against the tree trunk and fingers hovering over the top rail of a chair. Jeanne was certain she was going to flee until Ed broke the silence in a low, quiet croon that could easily have been meant for a startled animal. "Sit down, sweetheart; have something to eat."

Hermione perched on the edge of the chair. "Thank you, but I've already eaten." Nevertheless, she took a mini sausage roll from the plate he offered and held it between stiff fingers.

"You look lovely today," Ed said gently.

She thanked him again in the same hollow voice.

"How's Harry?"

The food dropped from her hand onto the table, but Hermione didn't seem to notice. "He's positively thriving."

"And you?" Jeanne attempted to follow Ed's example. "How are you holding up, darling?"

Hermione raised vacant eyes to Jeanne's for a long moment, then picked up the little roll and fiddled with it. "I'm quite well, thank you. How are you?"

A less tenacious individual might have given up. "How . . . " Jeanne wracked her brain for neutral subjects. That meant school was out, how thin Hermione looked, the boy, the graduation ceremony - and therefore the entire day - as well as- "How is Crooks?"

"He died in February."

"I- You never- " Jeanne looked to Ed for help as the degree of Hermione's separation from them became clear.

For the second time in less than an hour, he took her hand under the table, and he reached his free hand across the table toward Hermione. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart."

She moved her hand just before his fingers could brush her knuckles, but she did make eye contact with him. "How's Badgie?"

"He misses you terribly," Jeanne said far too eagerly.

Hermione returned her attention to the sausage roll. "Yes, well, I'm sure he'll love Malfoy."

Ed sighed. "Herm-"

"When did you plan to tell me?" she pressed, voice rising, "or did you think it could all be done very quietly while I was being held here against my will? 'Don't tell the girl who didn't graduate; maybe she won't notice - she's hardly home anyway.' Was that it?"

"Hermione," argued Jeanne. "We've been trying to reach you all week! You know we'd never make an important decision without consulting you."

"The headmistress asked for our help Monday evening; we told her we'd have to speak with you first," Ed added softly. "When you didn't reply to our Owls or answer your Floo, we had to decide without you last night. Draco only just found out before the ceremony."

She didn't seem to hear anything they'd said. "Did you really come to see me today, or was it just to pick him up and bring him home?"

"We came because we miss you," Jeanne argued, trying to curb her temper. Close as they'd always been, they butted heads regularly due to their mutual preference for plain speech; despite such a history, this wasn't the time for such confrontation. "We love you, darling. As for . . ." she waved her hand in a vague gesture as she searched for the right words, " . . . as for all this, it's temporary."

The sausage roll disintegrated in Hermione's white-knuckled fist. "You're absolutely right - I plan to lodge a formal grievance with the Ministry on Monday morning, have my diploma by Tuesday, and be at work no later than ten o'clock on Wednesday."

Oh, for the love of . . . "You'll do no such thing! You'll stay right here, do as you're told, and get the help you need so desperately because," she leaned until she caught her daughter's averted gaze, "We need our girl well and happy again. She needs it."

Hermione's brown eyes flickered with familiar warmth, and for a few seconds she was that girl who'd once sat on the floor by the couch in the lounge, head resting on Jeanne's knee.

Encouraged, Jeanne ploughed on. "Sunday lunch every week until you've completed this class. And sweetheart, stop being difficult. This is for your own good."

The fire died from Hermione's eyes, and she rose from her chair. "Please see that he doesn't touch my things." And then she was gone.

Jeanne exhaled loudly. "Well, shite."

"Oh, Jeannie." Ed made a resigned sort of noise that turned into a fond chuckle. "Ever the diplomat." He stood and gestured toward Hermione's retreating back. "I'll just go give her this, shall I?" He drew from his pocket the mobile phone they'd brought. "Be back in a bit."

"Tell her we want her for Saturday supper as well - she can stay the night," she called after him. She took a biscuit from the nearest plate and hurled it at the tree trunk. "When will I learn to keep my bloody mouth shut?"

The crowd was dwindling by the time Ed returned. Jeanne made what she hoped was an apologetic face. "How was she?"

"She agreed to Sunday lunches soon and an occasional text update if the mobile works here." He reached for her hand and tugged her to her feet. "Come along, love."

It was a start. "Where are we going?"

He grinned and began pulling her in the direction of the petting zoo. "You owe me a visit to the hippogriff."

The hippogriff took to Ed immediately, and what was meant to be a quick peek quickly morphed into him petting it while the groundskeeper told wild tales of other magical animals and Jeanne listened from her perch on a nearby bale of straw. They'd lost all track of time when the Malfoy boy eventually materialized, alone and obviously there for them. He didn't approach the hippogriff's enclosure.

She hopped up. "It's time to go."

"Five more minutes," Ed pleaded, cheek to cheek with the terrifying creature.

Jeanne brushed straw from her suit trousers and picked up her handbag. "Don't make me drag you out of there."

Ed was moping as he shook the groundskeeper's hand and thanked him for his time, and he looked downright pitiful when he said farewell to the hippogriff, but he complied. "I guess it is getting a bit late."

"Late would be an understatement - they're taking down the tables. " She gave him a meaningful look and nodded toward the boy. "Besides, your project beckons."

He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and teased, "Ready to return to twenty-first century civilization?"

"You have no idea." She drew a breath, gagged, and tried to escape his embrace. "Good God - you smell like a stable!"

Ed guffawed and tightened his hold on her, and they were both laughing by the time they came to the boy. "Time to go?" Ed asked.

He gave a solemn nod. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Mr. and Mrs. Granger, but the headmistress sent me to find you. The Portkey is set for five o'clock."

"Dr. Granger," she corrected. Then she looked at her watch. "That's in ten minutes - come on, you two! Stop pissing about!" And she set off toward the castle at a brisk pace with the two men at her heels.

They met the headmistress below her office with only minutes to spare, and she was at her crispest. "You're just in time. Come along." She beckoned them onto the stairwell. "Don't be alarmed; it's charmed to ascend." And when neither Granger batted an eyelash as it sprang to life, she asked doubtfully, "Are you familiar with such a thing?"

Jeanne was tempted to snap that there was nothing remarkable whatsoever about a moving staircase, and so she was relieved when Ed replied, "It's quite similar to an escalator, really."

The headmistress looked somewhat disappointed, but they'd reached her office and so she merely Summoned a short length of rope from her desk. "I've sent Draco's belongings ahead with an elf and will check in with the three of you tomorrow." She peered with age-clouded eyes between them and the boy. "Are there any questions that need immediate answering?"

"No', Ma'am." The boy accepted the rope from her and turned to them, an inscrutable look in his grey eyes..

"None whatsoever," agreed Jeanne, eyeing the Charmed rope with reluctance. Portkey, she'd discovered that morning, was a ghastly means of transportation; it wasn't something she planned to do often.

"Good." The headmistress gestured for the Grangers to grab hold. "Remember: whatever you do, don't let go."

Ed was grinning down at her like a little boy on Christmas, and his enthusiasm quelled some of her discomfort. "In five minutes you'll be feet-up on the couch in the drawing room," he promised.

Jeanne didn't respond as she took hold of the rope; she was wrestling with a sudden feeling of panic as her traitorous brain analyzed the reality of their situation. What on earth were they doing? Here they were, taking a stranger into the safety of their inner sanctum - a stranger with a criminal record who'd been unkind to their daughter for years and no doubt ascribed to the same superior mindset as the Hogwarts staff. She was a fool, she was, for letting Ed talk her into this!

Then the Portkey activated, and there was no time for anything more than a tightening of her sweaty grip on it. There was that weird pulling sensation to her midriff, a rush of magical wind, and with a loud POP they and their new ward escaped the wizarding world.

* * *

Later that night, after they were in bed, Jean prodded her husband. "What happened to my incredibly time consuming and difficult to carry drink today?"

"I was just thinking of that myself." Ed turned his head toward her. "He asked so courteously, and yet-" Moonlight streamed through the French windows, casting his noble features into high relief against the dark bed linens; it also revealed unshed tears in his eyes. "I think he'd have begged me if I'd resisted, Jeannie."

Accustomed as she was to his kindheartedness, such proof of it never ceased to bring out her protective side. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling his head to the shelter of her breast. "And what did the boy want that affected my drink?" she murmured into his mop of curls.

"He . . ." His body trembled against hers as he tried to master his emotion. "He didn't want to do anything that might draw attention to his mother."

How was it possible, she wondered, for a man to willingly take on the suffering of others and yet remain so untarnished? She smoothed a hand over his shoulders and pressed her lips to his head, willing him to find sanctuary in her strength. "He'll be safe here; I'll make sure of it."

Ed held her close and was quiet for a long while. Eventually his breathing evened out, his arms relaxed around her, and he began to snore softly.

"None of that now," she whispered as she adjusted his pillow under his neck, "or I'll have to smother you."

He gave a contented hum and, in the unguarded manner of one very nearly asleep, mumbled, "He reminds me of you."

That night Jean Granger found no rest. She stared out into the moonlit night, defying the world to just try and interfere with the life she'd so carefully built.

**George, darling, I'm still waiting for those cookies!**

**-G**


	11. Chapter 11: Arrival

**Those of you pining for an update on the Easter bunnies at chez Glitter will be happy to hear they have been weaned off their baby bottles (they make dear little bottles just for tiny orphaned animals!) onto solids - which means, since we have no vegetation yet, that they're dining on rather expensive mixed greens from the local market. Not that I'd begrudge them anything - they are the most darling babies ever. I named one Plot, of course . . . and yes, they will be reintroduced into the wild as soon as the temps are above freezing at night.**

**JKR owns HP; CK and I just dabble in fanfic. Thank you, CoquetteKitten!**

**Many thanks to KrishO, who left such a lovely note on the last chapter. What a day brightener!**

_Granger Residence_

_The Old Vicarage_

_Thompsons Lane_

_Cambridge, England_

Much, much later, Draco would wrack his prodigious brain to remember what mortal peril, exactly, he'd been expecting on the other end of that trip . . .

They'd arrived with the usual _pop!_ in a long, low drawing room with white paneling and a timbered ceiling, the details of which he committed to memory as he fought the residual vertigo of Portkey travel, wand held at the ready between white-knuckled fingers.

Beside him, the Grangers weren't faring quite so well; they were green-faced and doubled over, hands braced on their knees. A tiny voice in his head hissed his current advantage and a hundred ways he could use it; an even tinier voice wondered if he shouldn't help them. In the end he simply continued his study of this new environment and waited for them to recover.

The room had twin fireplaces, the closest of which had obviously been fitted for Floo connection judging by the telltale smudges of green powder on the grate, and between them a lengthy section of the white paneling that had hinges and a small handle with a lock. He was just wondering what lay behind when the male Dr. Granger joked weakly, "And people complain about air travel."

Just then the female Dr. Granger took notice of Draco. "Oh, no you don't! Pocket that _thing_ at once." A look of utter contempt skewed her attractive features as she eyed his wand. Her tone brooked no argument, and when he'd obeyed as if under Imperius, she gave a satisfied nod. "Now, then - settling in or dinner?" His thought process seemed to have slowed to a snail's pace; when he could only blink in confusion, she continued in that slightly louder, slightly slower tone usually reserved for the feeble-minded, "Would you like to unpack your belongings _before_ or _after_ we eat?"

_Ah_. Of course that's what she'd meant. He observed her warily. Of the two, she seemed the more likely threat, and yet she was a mother; in his experience, mothers were safe so long as their children hadn't been threatened . . . _Oh, dear gods_. He felt the blood drain from his face.

She was looking at him pityingly now, and there was something almost comforting in the familiarity of her condescension until he realized it was a near facsimile of her daughter's; the horror of that insight shocked his brain back into action. "Whichever is the most convenient for you, ma'am."

She'd already turned her attention to the he-Granger. "I'll do dinner; you take care of the rest." At the male Granger's slightly alarmed expression she rolled her eyes and added, "_Takeaway_." Muttering under her breath, she whipped out a little red object from her handbag, jabbed at it viciously with her thumbs, and then held it to her ear, speaking into it in an authoritative tone.

Draco would have remained rooted to that spot indefinitely, awaiting her permission for anything beyond breathing, but just then the he-Granger offered escape in the form of a beckoning motion. "Rule number one," he murmured when they'd exited into a narrow hall, "_never_ eat my wife's cooking." He pinned him with an earnest look. "Not even tinned soup."

And when it became apparent he was expected to reply to that potentially dangerous order, Draco ventured uncertainly, 'Ermmm . . ."

"I mean it," said the he-Granger sternly. He guided Draco down a flight of stairs and into another long, low room. This one must have spanned nearly the entire length of the house, and it was divided into a small cozy sitting area with a fireplace, and a long stretch of countertop and cabinetry that could only have been a kitchen - only Draco had never seen one so bright and inviting and utterly devoid of _any_ evidence of cookery. He continued, "The Granger women are cursed with a single flaw: they can and regularly _do_ burn water. Sometimes they unintentionally poison it, too." He strode the length of the room to a large gleaming icebox, which he opened and rummaged about inside. "It makes perfect sense, though; doesn't it?" he said over his shoulder, clarifying, "The gods have always been jealous of extraordinary women, cursing them with a fatal weakness." Then he turned with a friendly grin and held up two long-necked bottles. "Cider?"

In Draco's experience, those could only mean one thing: a beverage of alcoholic tendencies. He took one warily; it had already been a long day, and there was surely more to come. "Thank you, sir."

He-Granger produced a church-key from a drawer and applied it to both bottles. Then, raising his in a gesture that spanned all cultural gaps, he clinked it against Draco's own. "Rule number two: call me Ed."

Draco stalled by taking a hesitant swig - it had significantly more kick than Butterbeer - and finally nodded. "Yes, sir." Then corrected himself. "_Ed_." That simple utterance felt significant, as though by speaking it, he'd crossed the true threshold between the two worlds. The idea was a source of both relief and panic.

"Now _my_ cooking," Ed said in a self-assured tone, "you can trust. Come along, young man; let's get you sorted."

There had followed a brief tour of the house, which was a bewildering amalgam of familiar and strange. Every so often, Ed would pause to highlight what he laughingly referred to as 'Muggle magic': little flippy things on the walls near every doorway that produced immediate, unparalleled light; a wee box by the lower ground floor entry that blared an alarm in the event of unauthorized entry; the huge black rectangle with the long black cord in the breakfast nook that somehow connected the house to the rest of the Muggle world by way of a thing called _cable_. Draco merely followed along with his cider, his attention divided between the various curiosities and the man explaining them.

"Here we are," Ed said when they got to the third story. "Your room." He tipped his head toward the far end of the narrow hallway. "Hermione's is just there; I'm sure I don't need to tell you it's off limits."

"No, sir," Draco answered a bit too quickly. His belongings had arrived before him, the school trunk and various luggage pieces stacked neatly by the foot of the bed, and the small, lonely pile only served as a reminder of his temporary exile. He turned his attention to the space he was to call his own for the next few months.

It was tiny in comparison to the only other two bedchambers he'd had in his life, but brighter and cozier by far. The walls were of plaster rather than bare stone, the floor was covered in a thick pale carpet that spanned its entire length and breadth, and there was a small fireplace that hinted at the future possibility of private Floo calls. But the details of the space were relatively few, and there'd be plenty of time to study them later; within seconds Draco had returned his covert attention to his host.

Ed leaned against the jamb, sipping his cider in an absent manner, his large frame blocking the doorway without menace. He bore no resemblance to his daughter other than his wild mop of dark brown curls, and perhaps it was because of this that Draco finally decided the man was harmless. It never hurt to make an ally in a new place; for now, Ed Granger seemed his best bet. "Thank you for your hospitality, sir," he said in a formal tone that would have made his mother proud.

Ed glanced up with a start. "What was that?"

Harmless and _absentminded_. Such an observation had saved Draco's life more than once; he filed this one away for future reference. "Thank you for agreeing to house me."

"Hmmm." Ed studied his cider bottle for a moment and chuckled. "I'm not sure it's me you should be thanking, young man - my wife held the deciding vote." He pushed off the doorjamb, gesturing for Draco to follow. "Come along; dinner should be here by now."

Dinner was sushi; it came in strange little white boxes, delivered to the front door by a man on a rickety bicycle, and paid for with even stranger paper money. But the food itself was familiar, and Draco was pleased to see the looks of surprise when he picked up his chopsticks with the ease of experience. Afterward, Ed cleared the dining room table while the she-Granger laid down the rest of The Law.

And The Law was this: that Draco was to be a contributing member of the household and use no magic whatsoever - to which he agreed almost immediately, recognizing the woman was as powerful as she was terrifying. "You may call me Dr. Granger," she concluded magnanimously, handing him a fat stack of paper. "I've prepared some reference material to help bridge the cultural gaps. Do you have any immediate questions?"

Yes, in fact, he did - a long list of them - but he never got a chance to ask even one, because just then the doorbell rang again.

Dr. Granger groaned. "That'll be the dog-walker," she said to no one in particular. Then she sighed and motioned for Draco to follow her. "Best get this over with." She paused when they reached the front door and said almost apologetically, "Meet Badger."

He blanched at the memory of what had come next, of the wild, woolly creature who'd sprung through the doorway and launched itself at his chest with a fierce show of terrifying noises, sending him toppling backward to the floor. And then it was pouncing on him with a great show of teeth, sticking its great bushy nose in Draco's face and slobbering all over him as it continued its deafening growl and whine.

But the attack was over almost as soon as it began, for Dr. Granger brought the beast to heel with a tug of its leash and a sharply snapped command. Draco lay for a moment at her feet, his heart threatening to explode as adrenaline coursed through his prone figure, until Ed pulled him to his feet. "Badger's a bit keen on life in general," he said with a quiet chuckle.

Draco regarded the dog warily and fell several precautionary steps backward, hands pressed to his chest as if to slow his pulse by force. Animals tended to regard him with intense loathing. "Is . . . is . . . ?" But he couldn't finish the question, so tight were his lungs.

"He doesn't have a mean bone in his body," Ed assured him. He laid a gentle hand on Draco's shoulder.

As if in agreement, the dog began wagging its tail against the floor in a loud, enthusiastic beat. It cocked its head and whined up at Draco.

"You see?" Ed laughed again. "He's already eyeing you up as his new best mate."

A lifetime of experience was impossible to ignore, as was the ugly scar at the nape of his neck made by his family's owl, but the rhythm of Badger's tail was both loud and calm, and gradually Draco's heart slowed as he watched the dog from the safety of Ed's close presence. He felt the weight of exhaustion descend over his brain. "I need . . . " Overwhelmed by the day at last, he was suddenly too tired to speak.

"I expect you'll want some time to yourself now." Dr. Granger's tone was sharp, but her expression was slightly softer as she motioned toward the dog at her feet. "I'll keep him on a short leash until you've become accustomed to him."

Only minutes later in his room, he collapsed on the bed and immediately fell asleep in his clothes.


	12. Chapter 12

**No, I didn't forget . . . but it's a busy day here in Glitterland. Godmonster has talked me into trekking to a stable three hours from chez Glitter to check out a prospective dressage horse, and prep was required. So here you go! Thanks again for the love notes - glad to hear many of you are enjoying the fic so far. Today I introduce you to BadAss!Minerva. **

**This is a fanfic based on JKR'S HP series. We make no profit off it other than the sheer glee of mischief managed.**

**Thanks as always to the inimitable CoquetteKitten, goddess of context and syntax.**

***dashes madly to SUV***

***dashes back into house for her riding boots***

**AND NOW I'M LEAVING FOR REAL!**

* * *

It was pissing down and there was a wailing wind, and far away on the horizon lightning occasionally crackled across the sky. The weather matched her mood perfectly. Hermione stared out the window of her room with unseeing eyes, the humiliation of the morning replaying in her memory on a loop . . .

"_Miss Granger! To what do we owe the honor of your presence this morning?" The Headmistress's voice echoed loudly throughout the Great Hall, her irritation evident._

_Hermione winced as the enormous door slammed shut behind her, and she hurried toward the breakfast table. There'd been some changes made since the last time she'd actually attended a meal; gone were the long tables separating the houses, and in their place was one large round table directly below the faculty dais. "I-"_

"_This meeting is for graduates only," said the Headmistress, causing Hermione to freeze in place halfway across the hall. "I was very clear on that point at last night's briefing." She arched her brows and added acidly, "Of course, you would have known that had you attended."_

"_I didn't-"_

"_And since you are not, in fact, a graduate," the Headmistress continued as if Hermione hadn't said anything, "You may not be here."_

_Tears welled up in her eyes as her cheeks burned hot. She gnawed the inside of her cheek furiously and turned on her heel, leaving with as much dignity as she could muster._

"_You will present yourself immediately to Professor Hipthripple," the Headmistress ordered just before the doors slammed shut once more._

_She kept walking blindly along the passageway until at last she happened upon an alcove housing a suit of armor, and in the relative haven of the space behind it, Hermione collapsed to the stone floor, where she lay crumpled in a miserable little ball until she was numb with cold. Conversely, her traitorous mind was aflame, firing off endless details of the mortifying experience._

_Daphne had been there. Daphne, whom she'd thought had gone home after the reception, was staying on as a summer resident. When had she moved her things, and where had she slept the night before? Why hadn't Daphne told her - they'd been roommates for a year!_

_And to make matters worse, Susan Bones had been sitting right beside Daphne, the sanctimonious cow. What reason on earth could Susan Bones have for staying at Hogwarts for the summer - surely she had good deeds to perform elsewhere?_

_Neville and Goyle were there (as she'd known they would be) as well as Pansy Parkinson and Anthony Goldstein - all wide-eyed, silent witnesses to her shame - and presiding over them in cold fury . . ._

_The knowledge that it was her own actions that had drawn such ire from a professor she'd so long admired caused her heart to contract painfully, and she sobbed in the safety of solitude. Eventually, however, her tears dried, and the cold won out over her misery. With trepidation Hermione got to her feet and began the humbling trudge to the very doorway she'd vowed never to step through again._

_Professor Hipthripple's office door was open, and old-fashioned music spilled out into the hall. She looked up as if on cue when Hermione paused on the threshold, and she smiled gently. "Come in."_

_The professor got up from her desk and went to a battered turntable, turning down the volume until it was just faint background music. She gestured to a comfortable-looking chair. "Please sit. Would you like tea?" And then she busied herself with a hotplate and kettle._

_The disparity between the Headmistress's wrath and Professor Hipthripple's tranquility was discombobulating; it caused Hermione to obey without hesitation. "No, thank you." _

_Nevertheless, the professor produced a tray with two teacups, a sugar bowl, and a biscuit tin. She looked at Hermione kindly. "It's your choice, but I'll pour you some just in case you change your mind."_

_Hermione averted her eyes and said nothing._

_In the end she drank the tea. It was hot and sweet, and chased the last chill from her bones. _

"_Now," said Professor Hipthripple, "what can I do for you?"_

_If Hermione had expected a question, it certainly wasn't that. "Ermm . . . " _

_The professor smiled again. "Another cup?" And when Hermione shook her head in a dazed way, she gathered up the tea things and sent them to the sideboard with a wave of her wand. "You look as though a nap would do you good, Hermione. Why don't we meet for tea again tomorrow. Same time?"_

_Thoroughly confused, Hermione could only nod._

There was a rap on her open door, and then a familiar voice said, "We've been looking for you everywhere."

Hermione turned to Daphne, half expecting to see subtle triumph in her former roommate's eyes, but there was only the same reserved yet friendly expression Daphne always wore. "I don't-"

Pansy Parkinson brushed past Daphne and skewered Hermione with her signature sneer. "Damn, Granger - has McG got it in for _you_." She looked around Hermione's room with evident distaste. "So this is how the princess of Gryffindor lives. I expected . . . I don't know, something more _royal_."

They'd never exchanged more than a few words until now, but Hermione recognized in Pansy's barb a half-decent attempt to dismiss the earlier fiasco; she felt somewhat mollified. "Haven't you heard? My blood isn't blue at all," she countered.

Pansy snorted indelicately and began perusing the small shelf of books above Hermione's desk. "_Please_. You might not be Sacred Twenty-Eight, but you still make the 'Most Eligible' shortlist, at least for most people." She looked over her shoulder to where Daphne still stood by the door. "Can you imagine if she and Potter ever had puppies? Talk about pedigree."

Daphne seemed to be holding back a smile; in the end she was unsuccessful. "_Puppies_, Pansy?" she laughed, and the sound was low and sweet - a bright net cast over the other two that drew them all three together in a strange, fragile bond that defied interpretation.

Pansy snickered then, too, and even Hermione gave a small huff of amusement, and so the surreality of the day continued until she had no choice but to succumb to the madness of the world around her. "I have no desire whatsoever to have _puppies_ or any other kind of offspring with Potter, but thank you for the high score."

Daphne's smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "It's your choice."

There was a tenuous shift in the atmosphere, so slight that Hermione thought she'd imagined it, but the fact that Daphne chose that moment to change the subject confirmed her suspicions. "Oh, look! The rain stopped! Let's go to Hogsmeade for lunch, just the three of us."

Just the thought of leaving the safety of her room and trekking to the village through wind and wet weather for lunch in a crowded inn exhausted Hermione, but a whisper of a voice in her head suggested maybe it was time to stop hiding from every opportunity that came her way - for no other reason than it made her even more tired in the end.

"I'm not going unless we fly," Pansy stated in a tone that brooked no argument. She shot Hermione an appraising look.

If Pansy was going to throw down the gauntlet, Hermione was most certainly going to meet her challenge with every ounce of Gryffindor courage she could muster. She'd been made a fool in front of these two once already that day; it wasn't going to happen again. Chin tilted defiantly, she looked Pansy directly in the eye. "Let's go."

For a split second Pansy's expression showed the faintest trace of admiration. Then she swept out of the room, calling over her shoulder, "You're with _me,_ Granger."

In retrospect, the broom-ride to Hogsmeade was almost enjoyable; Pansy was a cautious flier, staying low and at a steady pace beside Daphne, and the air was crisp and smelled of rain. Best of all, the other two witches seemed content to travel in silence, leaving Hermione alone with her thoughts - and by the time they reached Hogsmeade, she'd nearly put the Headmistress's dressing-down behind her, focusing instead on what horrors might await her in Professor Hipthriple's office the next morning.

Would she be required to retake the entirety of Reconciliations? And how would the large group activities work with a total of one student in class? Surely most of the coursework would be independent study . . . she might not have it on a daily basis! Around and around her thoughts swirled in her brain, until she was startled back to the present when Pansy and Daphne landed on the edge of the village.

The Three Broomsticks was bustling as usual. Madame Rosemerta acknowledged their entrance with a nod toward an empty corner as she hefted a huge serving tray to her shoulder. "Be right there," she called.

The tables and floors were every bit as sticky as she'd remembered, and the smells of roasted meat and baking bread permeated the air. For a moment it was as though she'd been transported in time six years, entering this place for the first time with Harry and Ron. She remembered the wonder she'd felt at the idea of an entirely magical village; she recalled her first taste of what had quickly become her beverage of choice . . .

As if she'd read Hermione's mind, Madame Rosemerta materialized just as they sat down, setting three bottles of Butterbeer in front of them. "It's roast venison and parsnips today, ladies. Three plates?" And then she was gone just as quickly as she'd appeared.

Daphne raised her drink. "Shall we raise a toast to new opportunities?"

Pansy and Hermione followed her lead, clinking their bottles with hers, and they maintained a comfortable silence until their food came and they'd eaten their fill. Then Daphne set down her fork and knife and addressed the other two witches. "I'd like to tell you why I'm at Hogwarts this summer."

Hermione couldn't control the sudden curiosity that made her lean forward. Pansy, however, shook her head and put up a warning hand. "Oh, no you don't! If you do, you'll expect me to do the same - and I'm tired of being raked over hot coals."

"This has nothing to do with you, Pansy." Daphne dropped her eyes to the napkin in her lap and began fiddling with it. "But even if it were, why should Hermione be the only one whose reason for being here has been made public?"

"Granger's _used_ to being in the spotlight." Pansy slumped down into her seat with a scowl, arms crossed over her middle. "_Whatever_."

Daphne folded and refolded her napkin, a nervous action far removed from her usual poise. What on earth had her flustered? Finally she said in a trembling voice, "I've been struck from the family tree."

It clearly wasn't what Pansy had been expecting; she seemed to forget her former sulk completely, straightening up and leaning over her plate in a facsimile of Hermione's own pose. "You haven't!"

"It's true." Eyes on the napkin in her hand, Daphne continued, "I wrote to my parents, telling them I'd changed my mind, that I wouldn't be part of an arranged marriage. They gave me an ultimatum, and when I didn't comply, they had the house elves pack me a bag and deliver it to school." Her lower lip trembled.

"Daph, you've been engaged to the guy since you were twelve! What happened! What changed?!"

"The _war _happened, Pansy, and we _all_ changed." Daphne finally looked up, and now there was a defiant gleam in her eye. "Muggleborns like Hermione sacrificed nearly everything to change the worst parts of our world, along with wizards like Harry Potter and Ron Weasley and . . . and Neville Longbottom, who saw nothing wrong with a strong witch following the magic in her gut." Color rose to her cheeks, but she held their gaze. "If I marry, it will be for love. If I don't marry at all, it will be my choice."

Pansy seemed to be digesting Daphne's answer, brow furrowed and fingers drumming upon the tabletop. But Hermione, given such permission by Daphne herself, took up the inquiry. "What about Astoria?"

Daphne and her younger sister were famously inseparable outside of school hours. How was it possible for two such bonded sisters to break apart?

"Pfffft. They'll be fine - nothing could separate those two for long. I'm more concerned about how you're going to live," interjected Pansy. "How _will_ you? Do you have _any_ marketable skills besides your incredibly high standards of living?"

Daphne blushed again. "That's why I'm here. Professor McGonagall isn't just letting me stay at school; she's giving me an administrative internship of sorts. Apparently government work is uniquely suited to those with no specific training." She sighed and gave a graceful shrug. "By fall, I hope to be employed by the Ministry or perhaps one of the new magical primary schools."

It hadn't occurred to Hermione until that moment that the summer residents might have varying reasons for lodging at Hogwarts. She cast a speculative gaze in Pansy's direction.

As if she sensed Hermione's sudden attention, Pansy whipped her head in that direction. Had she been an animal, her ears would have been pinned back and her teeth bared; she was equally terrifying in human form, glaring at Hermione through narrowed eyes. But Daphne had only to clear her throat softly for Pansy to give in with a groan. "_Fine_." She rolled her eyes. "While I'm sure Romania is quite nice in its own way, I have no desire to live there - it's where my mother fled after my father was sentenced to Azkaban. And since I'm the last Parkinson, there's no place else for me to go. Our assets were seized by the Ministry, to be used for war compensation and Reconciliation programs. I'm in the same tight spot as Daphne."

By the time she was done speaking, Pansy's fiery attitude had burned itself out. She still sat slumped in her chair, arms crossed, but her disconsolate expression was the most genuine she'd shown yet. She shrugged off any sympathy. "Whatever. I was never that good of a Parkinson anyway."

Daphne was definitely holding back a smile this time. She turned to Hermione and murmured, "She's far too nice."

"Okay, I think we're done here." Pansy picked up her napkin from her lap and dropped it onto the table. She pushed her chair back and stood. "Let's go see what else this hellhole town has to offer to witches on a budget."

"Window-shopping at Gladrags?" Daphne followed Pansy's lead.

Hermione stood automatically and followed the other two back through the crowded main floor of the Three Broomsticks. Outside, however, she paused. "I'll catch up in a bit."

Without waiting for a response, she began walking without a destination. Up and down the main thoroughfare she wandered, looking through the shop windows. In each one she relived memories, sometimes of the boys, sometimes of her on her own. In Honeydukes she saw Ron with that silly grin of his and an armful of his damned chocolate frogs; in Dervish and Banges, she remembered Harry buying his first broom kit (and subsequently squirting oil all over his robes); in Madam Puddifoot's she watched her reflection in the window glass, recalling the many times she'd stood in the same spot, allowing herself one longing glance into the restaurant at her fellow students enjoying that romantic rite of passage she'd never experienced herself - other than that wonderful night of the Yule Ball, dancing on the arm of a relative stranger while the rest of the school looked on in shock.

She'd have continued in bittersweet reverie, but someone jostled her elbow. "Shcuuuuzze me," offered the tipsy wizard as he tottered around her and into the nearest doorway. Hermione looked up, only to find herself once again on the threshold of The Hog's Head.

She paused at the door as yet another surge of memories overwhelmed her, causing her head to spin. There was Harry's scar, and the smell of the tent they'd used on the run, and Ron's splinched arm . . . for a moment she was lost in time and space, remembering far too many things for a person of her age. Then someone else bumped into her, and she was jolted back to the present. "Sorry," she mumbled, stepping inside out of the light mist.

Her initial discovery of Aberforth's tavern last fall had been purely accidental; in an attempt to avoid a particularly irritating group of friendly eighth years, she'd simply fled through the nearest shop door. She'd become a regular, soon acquiring a taste for the kind of liquor that dulled the senses and curtailed memory. Now, it seemed, her subconscious considered The Hog's Head _the_ assumed destination.

The tavern was, as usual, nearly empty, and what few occupants there were remained shrouded in its perpetually dim, dusty atmosphere. Hermione let the door fall shut behind her and waited for her eyes to adjust; eventually she was able to make out Aberforth in his usual place. He gave her a nod of recognition and reached for a glass, pouring a neat Firewhiskey and setting it down on the worn counter. "Haven't seen you for a bit."

"Lucky you." She perched on a stool and looked down into the heavy amber liquid for a fraction of a second. Then, before she could glimpse her own reflection in its surface, she drank it in one burning gulp. "Judging by your constant dearth of patrons, I'd say there are a _lot_ of people you haven't seen _for a bit_."

Aberforth's long beard twitched as though he were smiling as he refilled her glass. "What has you in such a pleasant mood today?"

"Life." She downed her second drink and glanced around the tavern. "How do you manage to keep this place open? It's dark, _filthy_, and I can practically hear the vermin creeping in the corners. It's a wonder I keep coming back."

"I'm often surprised to find _myself_ here."

She propped her hands under her chin and scowled down the length of the worn countertop. "Why don't you ever have cocktail nuts or popcorn?"

Aberforth regarded her with his unfathomable eyes as he filled the little glass once again. "The same reason we don't have the pub quiz nights you're so keen about."

"They'd grow your business."

"It's fine the way it is." He returned the Firewhiskey to its spot on the shelf behind him. "And that's enough for you today; you'll not be sleeping off your liquor under one of my tables this time - _that's_ bad for business"

Hermione leaned back on her stool, waiting for the alcohol to deliver its pleasant numbness to body and mind. "They're a lot of fun, you know, pub quizzes. You don't know what you're missing out on."

It was an ongoing conversation between them, Hermione offering insights into improvement of the Hogs Head, and Aberforth squashing each one as though it were a repellent insect.

"Quiz nights bring friends together, which means more profit for you; besides, people shouldn't drink by themselves."

Aberforth chose not to mention he'd never seen her in the company of anyone other than herself - not once.

"What about live music?"

He turned his attention to wiping down the countertop. "Rubbish. Next you'll be suggesting theme nights"

"Overall hygiene, then - you can't go wrong with improving overall hygiene," she argued, wincing at the state of the barcloth he was using. She opened her mouth as yet another idea came to mind, but just then the delicious whiskey fog began creeping across her brain, and all she could manage was a deep, contented sigh. And, as the Firewhiskey -cheap, strong, and better than any magic - did its work, the long day caught up with Hermione; she folded her arms on the bar counter, laid down her head, and dozed off.

"Is that who I think it is?"

Aberforth turned from the washing up just as a wizard with a cocky grin swaggered up to the bar. The young wizard leaned toward Hermione, trying to catch a glimpse of her face, which was obscured by her wild hair. "Depends who you mean."

The wizard flashed another gleaming smile. "I'd know those curls anywhere - that's Hermione Granger." He looked around the dark tavern doubtfully. "What on earth's she doing _here_?"

At the mention of her name, the witch in question mumbled something unintelligible and then gave a gentle snore.

"Could ask the same of you." Aberforth studied the wizard for a few moments. As irritating as she was, he felt a certain amount of responsibility for the little witch's safety. "Who might you be?"

The wizard extended a hand in greeting. "Charlie Weasley. She was practically family for years."

Aberforth relaxed somewhat. "Should have guessed, with that hair. You're in the middle somewhere, aren't you - younger than the Head Boy, but older than the twit and those hellish twins." He made a gruff sound of amusement. "And then there was the one who ran around finding trouble with the Potter boy and this one."

Charlie leaned against the bar beside Hermione and reached for one of her long curls, wrapping it around his finger. "So what's she doing here?"

"Not taking care of herself, for one. She's a different witch than she was during the war. I'd never seen her taste a drop of Firewhiskey until she began visiting last fall." Aberforth shook his head. "Something happened, and it changed her."

"Yeah - I heard she broke up with my brother last summer. Must have been more brutal than mum thought." Charlie shrugged. "Didn't sound like they were ever going to last, though - she's out of his league."

Aberforth regarded the wizard with a feeling of disappointment in his gut, hoping that Hermione Granger had better friends elsewhere.


	13. Chapter 13

**Happy Sunday, Peeps! Here in the great North, spring has arrived, which is a very good thing because it's about effing time. Mother Nature, bless her soul, can be a right bitch up here at this time of year. Hope you are well and taking care of yourselves during this difficult time.**

**I don't check reviews unless CK alerts me to very sweet ones (keeps my head in a good place and my creativity uncurbed) . . . and ohmygawd guess who found me again: Benedict Bumblebutt! So glad to hear from you, old friend! Thank you for the love notes - your positivity and comments are inspirational!**

**ALSO! Thanks for the heads-up about the broken links on my personal website. I plan to spend this afternoon giving The Bespoke Witch a tune-up; hopefully I'll smack all those buttons into working order. **

**As always, CoquetteKitten is my alpha-beta-gamma-theta. Thank you, AlphaKat!**

**HP is owned by JKR. We're just doodling in the margins with glittery pens.**

* * *

Morning came far too quickly. Draco awoke with a crick in his neck when the room was illuminated by the sunrise, but he was _safe_. Then he remembered the huge woolly beast in the house. _Good sweet Circe_. Was it contained behind a closed door, or was it at large? He sighed. Safety was almost always relative.

He cracked one eye open and surveyed the room he was to call his own for the next few months. Last night he'd taken note of only the most basic of details: bed, carpet, and a small antiquated side-chair. Now he noticed smaller details, like the green-leaved wallpaper behind the bed, the luxurious feel of the eiderdown against his cheek, and another, half-opened, door that hinted at either a closet or an en suite. He hoped it was the latter.

Eventually his eyes landed on a small rectangle sitting on the bedside table. It was connected to the house by one of those long black cords, and it sported a row of odd, glowing, red numbers that changed at regular intervals. It tickled at his brain for several minutes until he hypothesized it must be a clock that conveyed the time in an alien way.

Leaving that solved mystery behind – he was to be in the kitchen at seven o'clock – he moved on to the single, odd picture hung in the room. It fascinated him; somehow it whispered to him of numbers and letters and all the other beguiling elements of master-level potions, and he resolved to find out exactly what it represented at some point.

Lastly, there was the small window near his bed, which looked out over a small garden adjacent to an old churchyard cemetery. This final detail that was hugely comforting; hadn't his own bedroom window looked out over the Malfoy crypt?

His stomach growled, bringing him back to the present; according to the Muggle clock, he had half an hour to wash and dress _and_ figure out how to purge the foul taste from his mouth without the aid of magic, his wand having been confiscated the previous evening by the she-Granger and sequestered to a mug on the kitchen counter. _Absolutely no magic in the house unless a life needed saving_, she'd ordered. He hadn't dared protest.

Some things were comfortingly familiar, however, as he discovered upon investigation of the beckoning inner door. It was indeed an en suite, and all necessary parts were exactly the same as the ones in his own world. With a groan of relief he made use of the toilet and then wet down his hair at the tap, his brain logging the tiniest details of his surroundings: the fragrance of the hand soap, the cheerful color of the stacked towels, the tiny neutral tiles that covered both floor and walls. And another unshuttered window! Never had he been in a building with so much sunlight - and this was only _two_ of its rooms. Lost for a moment in the pleasant atmosphere, Draco caught sight of himself in the mirror with a start.

He looked like shite - hair hanging in damp clumps over his eyes, which had dark circles under them, suit rumpled and shirt wrinkled beyond saving. A quick dash back out into the bedroom to glance at the strange little clock sent him into action. _Six-colon-four-five_.

With the aid of his wand, he'd have had all his belongings unpacked and neatly stored in the wardrobe; without it, he flung open his trunk and began sorting through its contents. Thank Merlin he was a tidy packer; his shirts were neatly folded, ready to be hung, as were the summer-weight suits he'd brought along. But such organizing would have to wait; with uncharacteristic haste, he stripped and began changing into a clean outfit.

Just as he'd dropped his pants, however, there was a great ruckus in the stairwell just outside his door, then the sound of scratching and a low whining. Good sweet Circe, it was the Badger thing. Naked save for his socks, he sprang toward the nearest viable object - the rickety chair - and propped it under the doorknob. The creature seemed to sense his proximity, raising its voice in a deep, demonic howl that raised the hair all over his bare body. Draco paused, heart pounding. He wondered how long it would take for someone to come looking for him. Or perhaps they wouldn't, and he'd end up dying of terror. Or starvation. He cast his gaze around the room. _His_ room for all intents and purposes, at least for the summer. Would he last that long? And why could he suddenly smell bacon? Damnit! Somewhere in the house, someone was cooking the world's most perfect food, and all he could do was swallow the drool that pooled in his mouth as he hid from yet another monster in his life. The cruel irony was gutting.

Well. If he was going to die, it would be with the dignity his mother expected. Quickly he dressed, brushed his hair, and went to the rattling door, noting with what could be his last coherent thought that his teeth felt fuzzy. Then came a bellow from the next floor down, and with it reprieve. "Badger, time for walkies!"

The beast gave a yelp of what must have been comprehension, for it tore down the staircase with even more noise. Draco unlocked the door silently and cracked it open a mere inch. The bacon smell became even more intense. Fuck it. He followed his nose down three flights of stairs to the kitchen, arriving just in time to see Ed Granger attaching a leash to the big woolly dog. Badger turned his attention to Draco and gave a soft whine, but he stayed sitting at Ed's feet. His tail thumped rapidly against the floor.

Ed laughed. "He certainly likes you. Don't worry; until you've had a chance to accustom yourself to his brand of joie de vivre, we'll keep him close." There was the ring of a doorbell, and Ed gestured to something just behind Draco. "Hang on. You might want to . . . " He pointed to the nearby sitting area. "If you move just there, I can . . . "

Draco obeyed, watching with slightly less terror as Ed opened the door and handed Badger off to a young woman with several other rambunctious dogs on leashes. Badger gave a loud bark and all but knocked over the woman, who simply laughed and scolded him in a loving tone. "There, you see?" Ed said when the door was safely shut on the mayhem. "He's just a big friendly oaf who doesn't know his own strength." And when Draco raised his eyebrows in disbelief, added, "Completely harmless, I assure you. Wouldn't harm a flea. Now! How about some breakfast?"

He made his way back across the long room to the stove, and Draco wandered after him. "May I help?" He'd spent a good chunk of his growing up years in the kitchens of Malfoy Manor, watching the elves make meals for his family and sneaking tastes of his favorite dishes, and while he'd never actually helped, he knew a lot in theory.

Ed glanced up from his skillet of pancakes with a look of pleasant surprise. "You can set the plates. Oh, and there's juice if you'd prefer that over coffee. Make yourself at home - have a good rummage so you'll learn what's where."

It felt rude, but Draco did as he was told, familiarizing himself with the contents of the cupboards and refrigerator. Ed didn't seem to mind in the least, and he provided a running commentary on the various Muggle contraptions around the room. Coffee maker, toaster, electric skillet, tv remote . . . some of them were really quite strange. "And they're all attached to the house by cords to make them work," Draco clarified at one point. "The house is electric? Except for the remote, which runs on batteries."

Obviously delighted by Draco's curiosity, Ed spent the better part of an hour providing a detailed explanation of electricity - its history, sources, and technical specifications, as well as the same for batteries. Finally he gave a shrug and chuckled, "You might say they're the Muggle version of Magic."

Except that Magic had no known source, and the only requirement to use it was being born with the right blood. A wand helped, of course. Draco glanced over to the mug sitting by the sink. It seemed to be taunting him. He was startled by another quiet laugh. "She makes Hermione do the same," said Ed with a grin.

That settled it. If Granger could survive the Muggle world without Magic, then he could as well. He ran his tongue over his teeth thoughtfully. "That reminds me, si- Ed; what is the Muggle equivalent of a tooth cleansing charm?"

There followed another enthusiastic narrative about dentistry and oral hygiene, at the end of which Ed led Draco back up to his bathroom and pointed out the contents of a particular drawer. There, wrapped in clear packaging, was a small colorful brush and a long capped tube. Of course! Before Ed's detailed explanation, Draco had assumed they were for cleaning the sink or tub. He kept this to himself, however, and nodded as sagely as he could. "I never looked in the drawer," he lied.

Ed clapped him on the back. "You have very nice teeth, young man. Give them a thorough scrubbing and then meet me back in the kitchen. Jeanne made us a schedule for today, and we need to get cracking."

Toothpaste, it turned out, was fantastic stuff. Draco examined his smile closely in the mirror.

Two hours later, his opinion of the she-Granger was slightly more positive. Her schedule (which turned out to be three pages long) was almost enjoyable. For one, it required the use of an amazing means of transportation; it was big, green, loud, obviously quite old, and had a fascinating thing called an instrument panel. Ed called it the Rover and patted it affectionately from time to time. They rode in it to various places around the city of Cambridge; the butcher, the baker, the post office . . . destinations that were just familiar enough to him to take the edge off his anxiety in crowded places.

The other reason was because of the last place they'd been ordered to visit: a young men's clothing store. Apparently the she-Granger was of the opinion that Draco dressed like an undertaker and needed help blending into Muggle society. Ed was apologetic about this particular errand. Secretly, Draco didn't mind at all; if there was anything he enjoyed almost as much as flying high and fast on a broomstick, it was _shopping for new clothes_.

It had been something he and his mother had done together each year before school began (or after a growth spurt) - they'd pour over the latest fashions, discuss cuts and colors, and then go to Madam Malkin's for private fittings. It was the one unsupervised event his mother had been allowed to leave the house for by his-

Draco bit the inside of his cheek in an effort to quell the memory before it ran away to other, less pleasant ones, and turned his attention back to the present. Muggle clothes were vastly different from their Magical counterparts, but he was a quick study, and if the pretty young salesgirl was flirtatious, she was also very good at her job. In the end, they amassed a rather large pile of items at the register. "Please put it on my family's account," he said automatically, realizing almost immediately his error. Salazar save him, he was in a different world and had no knowledge of Muggle monetary transactions.

Ed didn't blink. He drew his wallet and handed the girl a small colorful rectangle with raised letters and numbers. "This account, to be exact," he said with a wink. "We'll need some help getting all this out to the truck."

In the privacy of the vehicle a few minutes later, Draco opened his mouth to speak, but Ed raised a silencing hand. "None of that. Your mother had funds transferred for anything you'll need while you're with us. You'll have plastic of your own soon enough." At Draco's look of confusion, Ed once again drew out his wallet and the plastic thing. "It's a form of payment, like a bank check."

But the explanation was lost on Draco. His _mother_. He hadn't thought of her once that day, not really, but as always she'd foreseen his needs and prepared for them. He turned once more to the man beside him - the man who hadn't mocked his ignorance nor underestimated his intelligence once that entire day. Surely Ed Granger wouldn't deny him this. Still he paused for a moment, gathering his courage. "Sir, I'd like to Floo her today if possible."

Ed lived up to Draco's hope in the same kind manner he always seemed to have. "That's a good idea, son. I'm sure she's waiting to hear from you."

It was five minutes back to the Granger residence, two for Ed to banish Badger to the mudroom, and one to find the Floo powder and drop to his knees before one of the twin fireplaces in the drawing room. Seconds later, he forced the tears back from his eyes as she came into view, once again kneeling by the library hearth. Waiting for him.

"_Mother_." How could one word convey so much?

She smiled, and her eyes were as bright with unshed tears as his. "Draco," she breathed. Then she cleared her throat and said in a different tone altogether, "How is the weather in Cambridge?"

Years ago they'd devised a code of sorts to communicate in the company of others. Now they fell into it automatically. "It's nice, actually. And for you?" _I'm safe. Are you?_

"It's lovely here as well." _Yes._ "Did you remember to pack your broom kit?" _Do you have your wand? _

He hesitated only for a second. "Yes."

His regret lasted as long as it took for her to drop her guard. "You look well."

"I _am_," he assured her with a smile. "Thank you."

She seemed to understand exactly what he meant. "The headmistress was right, I think."

Draco thought of the man who'd housed and fed him, protected him from a loud woolly dog, and treated him with kindness and respect. And the she-Granger, who'd wanted to help him fit in, and did so with the aid of her husband. "You could be right."

"And Mr. Granger passed along your pocket money?" At his nod, she teased, "Don't spend it all on sweets."

"Actually, today he took me to buy Muggle clothing." He grinned.

His mother gave a bright little laugh, and she beamed at him. "You don't need to tell me you enjoyed yourself!" She leaned closer into the fireplace, scrutinizing him until he wondered if she had just spotted his lie - until she said, "Your teeth are _exceptionally_ white today. I'm glad to see that candy habit hasn't destroyed them quite yet."

He was _definitely_ keeping toothpaste in his morning routine.

* * *

As the green flames of the Floo network died down, Narcissa turned once more to the stack of parchment half-hidden under the voluminous skirt of her dress. She read through them again, brow furrowed, before sighing in frustration and tossing them into the fireplace. It was time to expand her hunt for the trove of legal papers she _knew_ was hidden somewhere in this wretched, gods-forsaken house. She'd combed the library; it was time to venture into the heretofore verboten: Lucius' office and private rooms.

It would have been child's play but for the fact she was wandless. Tears pricked at her eyes, and she squeezed them shut, remembering how beautiful it all had seemed on her wedding night when she'd willingly surrendered her most treasured possession to her handsome young husband. He'd suggested it in his charming way - that as his queen, she should never have to lift a finger - and plucked her wand from her hand in a playful way, laying it in a place of honor within easy reach. From there it had been a quick, ugly slide to a scared, powerless existence from which she escaped only for brief bursts of Lucius' whim - and even then he held the true power, with his oppressively powerful wandless magic, his mastery of Legilimency, and the brutality of his hands.

But the monster she'd married was finally gone, dead by his own hand via alcohol poisoning, and Narcissa Malfoy née Black, who was every bit as clever as her remarkable son, had a _plan_: find the legal papers, gain power of the what was left of the mouldering estate and family fortune, replace her confiscated wand, and then _by Circe's grace_ she planned to destroy any evidence of Lucius Malfoy ever having set foot in his ancestral home. It would be _Draco's _ home - just as soon as she had all her Doxies in a row.

But for that she needed an ally knowledgeable in pureblood tradition, and her only option was becoming increasingly apparent. She hoped he would live up to his recent offer of reconciliation.


	14. Chapter 14

**Happy Mother's Day to all fellow mums! I hope your spawn slept in late to give you time to yourself at the very least. The Litter did just that, although I'm not sure how much of a sacrifice extra sleep is for university students . . . Meh. I loved it! That and the new vacuum cleaner they talked Mr G into gifting me on this Holy Day . . . bless their hearts. As if I vacuum! But _THEY WILLLLLLLLLLL_! **

**This chapter is a favorite of CoquetteKitten. A typical conversation about _Rivers_ goes something like this:**

**G: Thoughts about the next chapter?**

**CK: Include Badger**

**G: How's our pace in drawing HG and DM together?**

**CK: Badger would help**

**G: Are our mini story arcs believable?**

**CK: Have you thought about adding a Badger piece?**

**G: Do you think Badger should be in this chapter?**

* * *

_The breeze carried with it birdsong and a hint of sea spray, and the sun shone down hot on her face and arms. She lay on the warm riverbank as the water rushed by, the strong, stiff current chattering as it crashed over rocks and debris. But it was another noise that held her attention: a high, happy bark that could only have come from an otter. Keeping as still as she could, she scanned the water's surface - and then it popped up with a bright splash, swimming directly toward her. For some reason the sight filled her heart to bursting; she held out her hand in invitation. Closer and closer the creature came, barking away as if to tell her something, and then it was within the reach of her hand, nose stretched toward her beckoning fingers. Just a bit further . . ._

She awoke with a start to find someone shaking her by the shoulders. "What!"

It was Pansy Parkinson. "You were dreaming."

The images were fading even as Pansy spoke, along with the strange, wild feeling that had accompanied them, and she felt a sense of loss, grieving for something she couldn't quite remember. Hermione shoved her away and leaned up on one elbow. Early morning light streamed through her window across her bed, and a quick glance at her bedside clock showed it was a bit early for a social visit. Hermione scrubbed her face with her hands, fending off the last vestiges of sleep, and found that her cheeks were stiff with dried tears; she wondered what she'd been dreaming. "Why are you here?"

Pansy raised her eyebrows in incredulity. "You don't remember." At Hermione's blank look, she clarified, "_Charlie Weasley_."

Hermione made another attempt to rub the sleep from her eyes as she tried to revisit the events of the previous day. Where the hell did Charlie Weasley fit into her visit to Hogsmeade? "What are you talking about?"

Pansy got a heated look in her dark eyes and licked her lips. "He's living _proof_ of what they say about working with dragons - that it ramps up a person's inherent animal magnetism. I want that wizard turned down to a slow burn and aimed at _me_."

Hermione gave an inward groan as return to sleep became less and less likely. She turned her inward attention to the topic at hand - Charlie Weasley: second of six boys, charming, uncomplicated, surprisingly graceful, and without doubt the most attractive of the brothers. "Haven't seen him since . . ." When, exactly, had she last seen him? It must have been at one of the victory galas last summer, because she distinctly remembered the flutter of her nerves when he'd swept her off onto the dance floor. "I think it was . . . "

"_Yesterday_! It was _yesterday_, because he carried your drunk arse home in his extremely well-muscled, tattooed arms! Does _that_ ring a bell?"

It did, in fact, ring several bells, which in turn sent a jolt of adrenaline through her system. She bolted upright in bed. "Ohmygod."

"_Exactly_."

"Ohmygod." She raised hopeful eyes to Pansy. "Please tell me I wasn't sick on him."

For a second Pansy's lips curled into a sadistic smile, but then she scowled. "Nothing so entertaining as that, unfortunately - you were just out cold. There wasn't even a decent audience. Then Daphne decided we should put you to bed and pour some Hangover Potion down your throat. I was checking on you just now."

There was an awkward pause during which Hermione's cynicism almost won out over her manners. "Emmmmm . . . thanks?"

Pansy turned toward the door. "You can thank me by getting your arse out of bed and ready for breakfast. We're headed down in half an hour."

Hermione flopped back onto her pillow. "_NO_." She heard the childish petulance in her own voice. "_Anything_ but that."

"Look, Granger. You owe me. First you ditched us in Hogsmeade, then I was strong-armed into helping you. Get up," Pansy growled. She yanked the duvet from Hermione's bed. "Now."

Hermione groaned. "After what happened _yesterday_ at breakfast? Surely you're not that heartless!"

If their interactions of the last twenty-four hours could be interpreted as the beginning of a relationship, it was promising to be a prickly one. "You have _no_ idea."

She hurled a pillow in Pansy's direction. "Get! Out!"

"Oh!" Pansy added over her shoulder. "And stop that _thing_ from making such a racket. What the hell is it!"

Hermione knew immediately what _it_ was, and she ground her teeth in frustration. "It's a mob- it's a Muggle communications device. My parents are under the misapprehension that I want to communicate with people. Just ignore it." She hauled herself out of bed, went to where the damned thing was ringing furiously, and gave it a vicious kick across the room. "Find a home for it, will you?"

"Just get ready!"

Had they met before the war, there'd have been no doubt who'd have had the worst bite, but at present Hermione couldn't find within her the energy for much more than a pitiful bark. Twenty minutes later found her in the eighth year common room, curls still damp and face grimly set as though she were headed to the gallows. "I _hate_ you."

"Back at you, bitch." Pansy smoothed back her short dark hair and muttered under her breath.

Hermione looked around the otherwise empty room. "Where's Daphne?"

"Private breakfast meeting with the headmistress," Pansy answered in a sour tone.

And then it was _so_ obvious as Hermione scrutinized her newest acquaintance - she didn't want to face the breakfast table alone. Something told her Pansy had staged the bickering as a way to save pride on both their parts. She almost laughed aloud. "Daphne _strong-armed_ you," she snickered as they started off toward the Great Hall.

Pansy huffed. "She's worked subtle manipulation down to performance art. _You_ try and resist her sometime. "

The laugh that hadn't completely died away came back with a vengeance, and for a few lighthearted moments Pansy joined in, albeit reluctantly.

At the bottom of the last moving staircase, however, Hermione sighed. "So we're going to breakfast."

"Because we hate ourselves that much," groused Pansy.

"At least _you_ don't have to retake Reconciliation. I cannot _believe_ I agreed to meet Hipthripple again today so- so _meekly_!"

"Oh, stop your bitching, princess. You're not the only one here under protest."

Hermione was temporarily distracted from her original pique. "I can leave any time I like."

"And be labeled the biggest disappointment of the age?" Pansy snorted. "Like that's going to happen." Her confidence seemed to falter, however, as they reached the Great Hall doors. "Gods, I need a cigarette." Abruptly she turned toward the small side door that led down to the boat dock, calling over her shoulder, "If anyone asks, I'm prepping for my one-on-one meeting."

It had been the easiest, most irregular conversation Hermione had had in a very long time. She thought up several clever rebuffs, but before she could spit one out there came through the crack in the doors the boisterous voices of the rest of the summer residents. "Shit." Without a backward glance, she fled after Pansy Parkinson.

* * *

Cigarettes, Hermione decided halfway through her first one ever, were neither glamorous nor therapeutic - nevertheless she finished the damn thing out of sheer stubbornness. Finally, gagging and coughing, she conceded defeat. "I need to- I think I'm- _Oh, gods_ . . . "

Pansy, of course, thought it was hilarious. "Go take the rest of the Hangover Potion by your bed and lie down for a bit," she called after her, "and don't forget to clean your teeth!"

_Unlikely_, she moaned internally as she staggered back to her room.

* * *

An hour later she was feeling slightly more human, the potion and a power nap having done their job. She glanced at her bedside clock and sighed. Well, if she could finish that cigarette, she could face Reconciliation. Donning the best protective gear she'd ever known - her outer robes and school bag - she headed across the castle toward impending doom.

Professor Hipthripple's office was almost exactly as it had been the day before - music drifting through the open doorway, kettle whistling away on the hotplate - except for the addition of a heavenly aroma hanging in the air. Hermione's stomach grumbled as she hesitated at the door.

"Good morning, Hermione," the professor called from within. "Won't you please come in?" She waved a hand toward a teatray on a nearby ottoman. "I hope you don't mind, but I haven't had my breakfast yet. Will you join me?" She turned down the music, settled into a comfortable-looking chair, and began preparing the tea with the fluidity of old habit.

Hermione perched on the edge of the same chair she'd occupied yesterday. She eyed the heavily laden tray as her traitorous stomach rumbled again. Surely one scone wouldn't betray her principles . . .

Professor Hipthripple seemed to read her mind. She plated a particularly large scone and topped it with a dollop of clotted cream, then offered it with a kind smile. "Almonds and cocktail cherries - my mum's recipe."

Hermione hesitated, but in the end she took the plate. One mouthful in, her principles were almost forgotten; she closed her eyes in bliss, wondering when she'd last enjoyed something so thoroughly.

The professor gave an appreciative hum as she fussed with the teapot. "She used to send me back to school with them after holidays - dozens of them in old biscuit tins - but they go stale _so_ quickly. Do you take milk in your tea?"

Hermione shook her head absently and tried to hide her enthusiasm for the scone.

"Sugar?" At her nod, the professor dumped in a copious amount of sugar, stirred it up, and handed it to her. "Where was I . . . oh, yes - the disappointing shelf life of an almond cherry scone. Well, the first thing I did when I got my Hogwarts letter was promise to find a magical solution. And I did!" She looked over the rim of her teacup with twinkling eyes. "It was the very first spell I ever performed for her. I still find it to be among my very favorites."

The anecdote was _clearly_ an attempt to break down at least some of her defenses. Something about it set off a little signal of recognition in her brain, but she filed it away for later study. If she could keep the professor talking, there was a good chance there'd be no lesson given today. The little signal went off again. After all, the strategy had certainly worked with Gilderoy Lockhart. The signal went off yet _again_.

Finally Hermione realized the noise wasn't in her head at all, but emanating from somewhere in her robes. Oh, for Godric's sake - it figured Pansy would have found the most annoying place to stow the mobile! "Sorry." She scrabbled through her pockets until she found it. The screen had only a telephone number - no contact name. Surely her parents would have programmed in _their_ information. Deciding it must be a wrong number, she turned the sound off with more force than actually necessary. "It's, emmmmmm, a thing for-"

"Muggle communication," supplied Professor Hipthripple with no sign of curiosity. She looked on as Hermione shoved the thing back in her pocket. "Hadn't you better turn off the-"

BZZZZZ BZZZZZ BZZZZZZZZZZZ

"-vibrate mode?" The professor smiled. "Someone certainly wants to talk to you."

"You're absolutely right." Hermione recognized the opportunity for what it was. Digging the mobile out once again, she gave the professor what she hoped was an apologetic look and pointed toward the open office door. "Please excuse me," she murmured, and without waiting for permission escaped to the relative safety of the passageway. "Hello?"

A familiar voice at the other end shouted back, "IS THAT YOU, GRANGER!"

Nearly dropping the device in shock at the sheer volume of his voice, Hermione could do nothing but blink for several seconds. Finally she managed to croak, "_Malfoy_?" Then she held the phone out at arm's length and searched for the volume control.

"YES! IT'S MALFOY! CAN YOU HEAR ME!"

"_STOP YEL-_" She turned it down as low as it could go. "Stop _yelling_, Malfoy. I can hear you plainly!"

"I AM NOT-" Malfoy cleared his throat, "_yelling_. You can hear me?"

"Yes! Quite well, actually! What do you want?"

"How do you sound so close?" he asked in a suspicious tone. "I thought you were at Hogwarts!"

"I _am_ at school, you _idiot_, "she ground out through clenched teeth, enunciating each syllable. "You honestly thought sticking your head into a fireplace was the most efficient way to talk long-distance?! Now _what do you want_!"

There was a pause before he hissed, "_I think I broke the dog_."

It was Hermione's turn to yell. "YOU _WHAT_!" What had he done to Badger - lovely, ebullient Badger, who'd never done more harm than chase squirrels or knock her into the river Cam at regular intervals! Poor Badger! _This - THIS would show her parents the error of their interfering ways!_

"It was an accident," he pleaded. "I was hoovering, and he began howling, and then he raced up and hid under your bed! I can't get him out, and he sounds _hurt_. I don't know who else to ask!"

"_You_. _Idiot_." Her panic of only a few seconds ago died, replaced by immense relief. Badger was fine, just terrified. "Where are you right now?"

"Just outside in the hallway."

"And let me guess - you're holding the hoovering wand where he can plainly see it."

"Wait - it's called a _wand_?"

"Never mind that, Malfoy! Go down to the kitchen, and for Merlin's sake take the hoover with you."

"The _kitchen_," he repeated. Nevertheless, she heard him clambering down the requisite three flights of stairs. "Now what?"

"Blueberries. Go to the fridge and see if there are any."

"_Blueberries_."

"Stop repeating everything I say! Yes, _blueberries! _Tell me you know what those are!"

"Yes, I _know_ what blueberries are, Granger! I just don't see what this has to do with-"

She'd have slapped him if she could. "My God, you're _such_ a moron!"

There was a pause, then the sound of the refrigerator door opening. "I don't see any."

"ARE YOU USING BOTH OF YOUR EYES!"

"Look, Granger, you don't need to yell! I happen to be very _good_ at finding things. I was a _seeker_, after all! I'm _telling_ you there are no blueberries!"

"_Terrific_." Hermione gave an inward sigh. The thing about Badger was that he was very much used to things being done in a certain way. That meant blueberries were necessary to coax him off his hoovering ledge and out from whatever piece of furniture he'd wedged himself under.

If only she hadn't got drunk yesterday, Pansy wouldn't have checked on her earlier, and she'd still be fast asleep. But _no_ \- instead she'd been bullied into a missed breakfast, a cigarette she could never _un_smoke, two heavenly bites of a scone that had probably purchased her soul, and more conversation than she'd had in months. Talk about being _strong-armed_. At that moment she hated Daphne Greengrass, because she was _undoubtedly_ behind the whole damned thing.

Once more she had a choice: leave Badger to suffer at the hands of incompetency, thereby becoming immediately available to the professor, or face a demon she wasn't yet prepared to acknowledge.

"Granger, I can hear him howling from down here! What should-"

She sighed, aloud this time. "Hang on; I'll be right there." She hung up on her end and reentered the professor's office. "I wonder if I might be allowed to use your Floo."

* * *

No sooner had the Floo powder settled on the hearth than a rich, milky baritone voice spoke from behind Professor Hipthripple's open door. "Things certainly have a way of falling into place for you; don't they, Hestia?"

Hestia Hipthripple crossed the room quickly and closed the door, but not before giving a private, triumphant fist pump high in the air. "Headmaster Snape! I was wondering if you'd been eavesdropping."

The portraiture of a man she'd never met in real life gazed down at her with the slightest hint of amusement glinting in his dark eyes. "I'd congratulate you, but this outcome has more to do with _luck_ than strategy."

"There is no strategy in any world that can make a wounded creature help itself; surely you know that."

He gave a cynical snort. "And so you hope to ensare her with tea and scones."

"On the contrary," the professor contended. "I hope to remind her of the goodness to be found in life, even at the humblest level, and to lay a path of recovery for her to follow of her own free will." She turned and began packing scones into an old battered tin. "If I'm not back for tea, please tell Minerva I'm visiting my mother."

"You realize you have only a few months to help the girl, Hestia."

"Oh, Severus," she chuckled, performing a Stasis charm over the tin, "_never_ underestimate a Muggleborn."

* * *

Hermione shot from the fireplace like a bullet. "Malfoy?"

He bungled with an uncharacteristic lack of grace up the two half-flights of stairs separating the lower kitchen floor from the ground floor. "Here!"

"Do you have any Muggle money?"

He pulled a very new-looking wallet and looked through it. "Ermm . . . blue paper and hexagonal coins."

"Right. Pret a Manger. Pack of blueberries. GO." She turned toward the staircase and called gently, "Baaaaadger!" There was a prolonged howl of agonized self-pity from the fourth floor. She rolled her eyes. "He is _such_ a baby."

Draco hadn't moved; he just stood there with a worried frown. "The thing is, Granger . . . "

"Oh, for Godric's sake! What is it this time?"

"I, errrm, can't leave the property unless accompanied by a member of your family."

Hermione took a calming breath, reminding herself that she was currently avoiding a Reconciliation session. "Well, then." She waved her hands impatiently. "Let's hurry up and go."

Malfoy _still_ didn't move. "You can wear that out there?" Malfoy asked in disbelief, nodding to her school robes. "I thought we had to blend in." He indicated his own outfit of jeans and sweatshirt, complete with trainers.

Damnit. She'd completely forgotten about that, so long had it been since she'd left Hogwarts. She silenced him with a murderous glare as she shrugged them off, revealing her school uniform. "This will have to do. Now come on."

The relatively short walk took twice as long as it should have done. Malfoy was fascinated with the strangest things - box junctions, electrical lines, the rows upon rows of sandwiches on the shelves in Pret - and he was _obsessed_ with any vehicle they passed. "Come _on_," she griped for what had to have been the tenth time on the walk back.

He lengthened his stride. "That wasn't right, you know. You'd have sent me out into a completely alien world on my own."

_That_ nearly earned him a slap. She stopped short_._ "I'm sorry," Hermione snapped, "but I don't see the problem. After all, my introduction to the wizarding world was pretty much '_this is a wand, now walk through that wall and good luck_'. I had no supervising adult from my own world checking up on me, no host family - you're practically being served Muggle culture on my grandmother's china!"

Malfoy had stopped as well and now regarded her wordlessly. She held his inscrutable gaze until it began to make her uncomfortable, and she looked down at the shopping bag in his hands. "Badger's going to keep up his theatrics until he gets his blueberries. Come on."

They completed their trek in awkward silence, but by the time she'd explained how to lure the dog out from under her bed, the tension had dissipated. Hermione coaxed Badger in babytalk, and Draco sat a safe distance back, his obvious disdain slowly morphing into amused fascination.

"Did the mean, bad boy make Badger so saaaaaaaaad," she crooned from where she lay on her stomach, head down low so she could make eye contact with him. Then she rolled a blueberry to a spot just out of Badger's reach, and he inched forward to snap it up with a hungry sound.

"Your mother _told_ me to Hoo-"

Hermione whipped her head in Malfoy's direction and hissed, "We do _not_ use the 'H' word around him!" To Badger, she added, "We don't like that awful thing, do we, baaaaaaby?" and sent another blueberry toward him.

"_Wrowlowlowlowl."_

"Pooooooor woolly baby." She rolled yet another blueberry just out of his reach.

"_Wrowwwwwwwwwwwwl."_

"Was he mean to youuuuuu?"

"Not at all - we've been getting to know each other!"

"_Wrooo wrooooooo wrooooo."_ He got two blueberries that time.

The odd three-way conversation went on for the next ten minutes, until at last Badger unwedged himself from his hiding place. He immediately forced his way into Hermione's lap. "_Oof_. No! You are _too big_ for this, Badger!" She tried to push him off, giggling when he slobbered all over her face. "Stop it, you oaf!" Finally she succeeded in getting away from him and turned suspiciously to the wizard beside her. "Why was my door open in the first place?"

He rolled his eyes. "As if I have _any_ interest in your room. He wouldn't stop scratching at it all morning; I just turned the knob - didn't go past the threshold."

As if to confirm, Badger sprang onto her bed. "_WOOF!"_

She couldn't help but smile as he opened his mouth and began to pant, looking for all the world as though he were laughing. She glanced at Malfoy. "Any other crises I need to solve for you?"

Malfoy glared down at her. "For the record, the she-Grang- ermmm, your mother _never_ mentioned anything about him and the h-o-o-v-e-r."

"_Maybe_ she thought-" For some reason she stopped. Perhaps it was all the endorphins released by her time with Badger - Hermione couldn't be sure. What she _did_ know was that it seemed like too much of an effort to continue sparring with Malfoy. "She probably forgot how different the two worlds can be."

His expression softened marginally. "Thank you for helping me today."

"You're welcome." A thought occurred to her. "You wouldn't be willing to back me up if I enter our interaction for Rec points, would you?"

His mouth twitched. "That depends; any overly large tomes you're planning to hit me with?"

She couldn't help but snicker. "Not today."


	15. Chapter 15

_Granger Residence_

_The Old Vicarage _

_Thompsons Lane_

_Cambridge, England_

"What do you say we take the punt out this morning?"

Draco glanced up from his current attack on a heavily laden breakfast plate to find Ed Granger grinning at him in a conspiratorial way. He swallowed an enormous mouthful of bangers and mushrooms, glad his mother wasn't there to see it. "I have-"

Ed waved a dismissive hand, his blue eyes gleaming. "Chores can wait, Draco! It's _Saturday_!"

"Erm . . . " If there was one thing Draco had learned in the past two weeks, it was that nothing could derail Ed Granger once he'd set his mind to something - that, and his enthusiasm was virulently contagious. Though he'd spent most of each day at work, Ed still managed to find some small adventure for them to share each early morning and evening. Badger often joined them. They'd shopped at the outdoor market, visited a car dealership, cooked dinner several nights, picked up takeaway, met a few neighbors, and fed countless ducks. Best of all were the short treks they took in 'the truck', as Ed called his magnificent green vehicle. And everywhere they went, people knew Ed - and even _more_ people knew Badger.

As if he'd read Draco's mind, the woolly beast at his feet gave a hopeful whine and thumped his tail against the floor. Draco couldn't help but smirk and drop another tidbit of sausage. He'd never have thought it possible, but he _liked_ Badger, and Badger liked him very much indeed. Their relationship had progressed to behind-the-ear scratching and all-over-the-face licking, and Badger was sending out constant signals that he was eager for them to take the next step - free access to Draco's bedroom. "I've never been punting," he confessed, "but a friend and I once built a raft and used it on the river near my-" he faltered for an agonizing second, "-my family's residence."

For another long moment he was transported in time. He and Teddy Nott had spent an entire summer out in the wild just before their first year at Hogwarts, with nothing more than a shelter of felled tree limbs and blankets between them and the sky. Well. That and his mother's daily deliveries of the kinds of food never before allowed to him - spare ribs, kebabs, sticky toffee pudding with lashings of custard. . . all of which was possible because his- he drew a breath and came at the memory from a different direction. _Lucius_ had been away those two months. Finally he broke free of the bittersweet memory. "I'd like that, Ed."

Ed's glee was palpable. "Excellent!" And then, when Draco turned his attention back to his heaping plate, exhorted, "Come _on!_"

It was one of those impossible June days; the sun shone down unimpeded by clouds, leaves susurrated in the soft breeze, and the river whispered a thousand cryptic secrets as it ran past.

The Grangers had their own punt, moored alongside some others at a small private jetty. It was obviously ancient and in need of a coat of paint, but Draco fell in love at first sight. He clambered aboard immediately, juggling lunch bags and quant in trembling hands. A hundred images from that glorious summer with Teddy bore down upon his unprepared mind, rendering him far more vulnerable than he liked.

"Hold onto this, will you, and I'll push us off." Ed traded Badger's leash for the quant and expertly maneuvered their punt from the quay. Draco obeyed, settling back to focus on the dog's antics. Badger gave a _WOOF_ of apparent glee, his entire body vibrating like a tight-wound spring, and leaned as close to the water as his short leash would allow. Ed chuckled. "I'm not sure which job you'll find more difficult: keeping him out of the water, or keeping him away from our lunch."

"I brought something for him as well." Draco opened the lunch bag just enough to reveal the carton of blueberries he'd remembered just before they'd left the house.

"How on earth did you-" An odd expression crossed Ed's face. "She's been home," he whispered.

It hadn't occurred to Draco until that moment that of the three visits Granger had made that week, none had been while her parents were home. A wave of nausea swept over him as he realized his unconscious complicity. Would Ed consider it a betrayal? A quick glance up through the curtain of his shaggy hair said otherwise; the man was now smiling even though his eyes were exceedingly damp. No; Ed would never make such a negative assumption. He _knew_ that at a fundamental level - that Ed was good and kind and _safe_. He tried to swallow. It took several attempts before he managed to reply, "It never occurred to me you didn't know." And now Ed was regarding him with such compassion that it physically hurt Draco. What had he done to deserve such a look? "I'm sorry," he choked.

Ed smiled and shook his head, dismissing every word Draco had said. "You have no reason to apologize, son. We're trying our best to give her the space she needs. But can you tell me how she is?"

He hesitated only a second - after all, he owed Granger no loyalty - and then related the Hoovering Incident, the Microwave Fiasco, and the Mystery of the Phantom Beeping, all of which she'd resolved in her usual irritating glory of superiority. When he saw how much Ed was enjoying it, he relaxed enough to editorialize a bit, even showing him some of Granger's more irritable text responses to him. By the time he was finished, Ed was laughing so hard he was wheezing. "You- you- she-" he shook his head and clutched his sides. "I can't-"

Meanwhile, Badger had discovered the lunch bag; it wasn't until they heard the crackle of plastic that they both turned to see what he was doing. "Damnitall," Draco swore softly as he dropped the leash to wrestle a half-eaten bacon butty from the beast - and that was all it took for Badger to give an exultant _WOOOOF_ and leap over the low side of the punt and into the River Cam.

Draco responded instinctively, shucking off his shoes, shirt, and hoodie and diving in headfirst. As he hit the water, though, he realized he had no knowledge of this particular river, and tried to adjust his trajectory accordingly. Even so, his fingers ploughed into the muddy river bottom. He surfaced and looked around for the dog. "Where did he go?!"

"Draco," Ed wheezed, still laughing, "he's-"

But Draco had already submerged again, trying to see something - _anything_ \- in the murky water. He knew how swiftly a river could flow. Could dogs swim? Forward and to the sides he swept his arms, reaching out with his fingers in the hopes of finding fur. Finally he had to come up for air. The current wasn't overwhelming; then again, he was a strong swimmer. "Can you see him?!"

"He's fine, son! He's here." Ed beckoned him back to the punt and, when Draco reached its side, helped him back onto it. Sure enough, there was Badger at the back of the small vessel, water streaming from his shaggy coat and tongue lolling from his mouth as though he were laughing. Ed grinned in an apologetic way.

"He can _swim_." Draco pushed his sodden hair from his face and stared down the shameless bastard. Badger had the grace to lower his eyes almost immediately.

"Oh, yes - very well indeed. I, erm, probably should have explained _why_ we wanted to keep him out of the water."

He closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of the breeze on his wet skin. "And why is that, si- Ed?"

"Because _now_, Draco, we'll have to give the damned dog a _bath_. And he enjoys those _twice_ as much as swimming in the river."

It was Draco's turn to laugh. He leaned over the side of the punt and trailed his hand through the water, absently watching it flow through his fingers. For as long as he could remember, water had been an ally; it had bathed his wounds, relaxed his mind, and soothed the deepest aches of his heart. Even now it called to him, and for a few seconds he considered jumping into its embrace again.

Ed broke through his reverie, his deep voice gentle. "You're quite the swimmer. Don't think I'd have thrown myself into a river I didn't know."

Badger crept the length of the punt and laid his wet head on Draco's knee, gazing up at him with adoration. Whether it was the river, the dog, or the man piloting them through the water, Draco felt a strange sense of liberty overtake him. It made him want to share . . . something - _anything_. "I, erm, I grew up along the Bliss. More like _in_ it."

"Not in _Wiltshire_." At Draco's nod, Ed made a delighted noise. "A fellow moonraker? What are the chances!"

Draco looked up, raising a hand to block the sun from his eyes, to find Ed staring curiously at his right forearm. For the second time that morning, a wave of nausea passed over him as he realized he'd forgotten to cover up after his unplanned swim. He sat up and reached for his hoodie.

"That's quite the tattoo."

Draco paused. "That's not- It's not a-" He clamped his left hand over it.

"Am I to understand it's _not_ a permanent mark chosen as a way to prove yourself to something or someone?" Ed pulled a comic, rueful face. "Because I, too, have one of those."

"It's- it's- Wait. You _what_?"

Ed wrinkled his nose. "In my youthful desire to prove myself a man, I chose a symbol that was to me, at least, representational of my deepest convictions." And then he actually blushed. "I'm forever branded by a rather phallic pistol with a flower tucked into its muzzle. It's, erm, a very _limp_ pistol, might I add. Fortunately, no matter how permanent the mark," he continued as he poled them along, "far more lasting is the sentiment behind it." Ed turned with a grin and locked eyes with him. "You tell me yours, and I'll tell you mine."

Draco could do nothing more than try to swallow back the surging bile in his throat. Then Badger gave a soft whine at his knee and licked his hand, as if he could sense his distress. He leaned down to tuck his face into the dog's wet neck, inhaling the scents of river and fur as he thought quickly. Ed had already seen the dark mark; could sharing a brief explanation make Draco any more vulnerable than he already was? But could he find it within himself to say things he'd never spoken aloud? Badger nudged his ear and gave him another doggy kiss.

Again that feeling of reckless independence overcame him, and before he could censor them, words tumbled from his mouth. In short, terse sentences he told Ed about his mother, the man he'd once adored and called Father, and the murder of Martha Goyle. He spoke of the choices he'd made, and their consequences - both for him and others - and when he was finally done, he felt exhausted.

The moments immediately following his vocal purge were broken only by the sounds of the quant breaking through the water and Badger's panting. Finally Ed gave a low, thoughtful hum. "You took the mark to save the person you loved most in the world."

Once again Ed had reduced the convoluted to one simple fact. Draco shook his head, suddenly filled with an anger that had no target. "It's not that simple! You don't know anything about it! I was a coward, a bully, and the awful things I _chose to do _caused suffering - _death_, even!"

"You were a child. You're _still_ a child."

"Your daughter was a child, too, but she chose to do the _right_ thing every time, no matter how difficult. She's a _hero_. Did you know that?"

Ed sighed, and his voice became impossibly gentler. "I know that Hermione was raised in a home full of love and strength, where it was safe to stand up for what she believed. It sounds like your upbringing was far different, despite your mother's influence. And as for the unspeakable things that happened to _all _of you . . . "

Draco's brain physically ached as that old familiar fatigue began creeping through his limbs, but he managed to nod to Ed as his eyes drooped. The trip back up the river was made in relative silence while he and Badger curled up in a sun-warmed heap, When they'd moored the punt to the quay, Ed laid a hand on Draco's shoulder. "I don't presume to understand your world, son, but we Muggles don't send our children into war. We protect them from it however we can."

* * *

Back at the Old Vicarage, the telltale green dust of Floo travel still hung in the air as they passed through the lounge. Badger gave an excited whine, and Ed perked up even as he said quietly, "I'll just take him down for his bath. I don't want to scare her away."

Submersed as he'd been in that household for the past few weeks, Draco felt a twinge of irritation at the way Granger shunned her parents while they tiptoed around her sensitivities. He'd overheard them talking with Professor McGonagall by Floo several times, had seen the growing pile of Owl posts on the kitchen counter addressed in Professor Hipthripple's unmistakable handwriting. How was it that one stroppish witch could command so much care and attention? "Surely you . . . "

Ed shook his head, and though his mouth was turned up in a smile, it was more pained than happy. "Do you remember rule number one, Draco?"

"Never eat your wife's cooking," he responded without hesitation.

"And rule number two?"

"Call you Ed, sir."

"Rule number three is this: _never _try to force a Granger woman to do anything against her will. Pushing her won't work. Hermione knows we're here and waiting; she'll come to us when she's ready." Ed turned to the dog at his feet. "Come on, boy - bubble time. "

Draco stood there in the lounge until he heard the sound of the tap running in the mudroom, Ed's words echoing in his head. They were almost exactly those of his own mother the night she'd realized he wasn't yet ready to go home; appalled by how quick he'd been to cast judgement only moments before, he found escape in heading up to his room to change out of his river-damp clothes.

But as he reached the top of the topmost staircase, Granger bolted out of her room, a hunted look on her face. "Who else knows I'm here?" she hissed.

Startled, he side-stepped the truth. "Erm, your father's bathing the dog." A few weeks ago, his nerves would have gone into overdrive, sending him into one of his fits of panic; here in this house, although adrenaline had already begun humming through his veins, he felt no other effects beyond his racing heart and the tremble of his hands. When her shoulders sagged, he tried again. "You could easily sneak-"

"I am _not_ a coward!" Even as she growled the words, her chin quivered.

He had no wish to fight. Draco threw his hands up in the universal signal of surrender. "I wasn't-"

"I'm not ready, okay?!"

Normally he'd have replied with a caustic quip, but his recent epiphany had stripped him of cleverness. The memory of that Floo-call with his mother still resonated, and a nameless emotion - the one he felt when Greg wouldn't ask for help - caused him to say, "Relax, Granger; I get it."

She started back toward her room. "I just came back to get a few things."

He went to his own doorway, but that same feeling drew him the extra few steps beyond to hers. He peered around her half-open door. "Do you, erm, need anything from downstairs?"

Granger sank down onto the carpeted floor and laid her head on her knees. "Honestly, I have no idea _what_ I came for. I guess I just needed to get away from . . . " She was looking his way, but staring right through him. "_You_ know."

It felt like an invitation, and something about her slight resemblance to Ed made it feel welcome; he stretched one long arm to push the door open further. "What's so awful at Hogwarts that you'd rather risk seeing me?"

She gave him a piercing look. "What's with you being . . . _nice_?"

"I can be _nice_." He tried to say it with a straight face and failed miserably.

She snorted. "That's almost as funny as Daphne telling me Pansy's too _nice_ to be a Parkinson."

"Well, that's true. There's something _seriously_ wrong with that family." He tugged at the neckline of his damp hoodie, which was starting to make his skin itch. "I came up here to change, actually; Badger and I had a little swim in the Cam this morning, hence his bath. I need a wash, too. Erm, good luck with things."

He was almost to his room when she called out quietly, "How are you set for blueberries? I mean, I'm here; we could go pick some up."

Draco paused. There was another whole carton in the refrigerator, but the idea of spending time with a peer - even Granger - wasn't exactly awful. He pointed at her school uniform. "Ready in ten, but only if you at least _try_ to blend in."

* * *

The walk to Pret took less than ten minutes, and when they got there, there were no blueberries. But neither was in a hurry to be done, and so they bought lunches instead and headed toward the river along with all the others out enjoying the glorious weather. Finally they found a quiet spot under a willow; they sat down with their backs to it and ate their sandwiches.

"What do you _do_ all day, anyway?" Granger asked as she daintily picked the crust from her last bit of bread.

Draco thought for a moment. "Depends on what your mother puts on the list. Yesterday I did some laundry and helped make dinner- "

"You _cooked_?" she interjected, one cynical eyebrow raised.

"_Yes. _It's quite similar to Potions, really - only, without the magic."

She gave him a stern look. "I dare you to say my father's cooking isn't magic."

"This morning we went punting," he continued with a smirk.

"And Badger jumped in at the first opportunity," she snickered.

"Right after he ate our lunch."

Granger laughed outright - a happy girlish laugh that felt for some reason like a reward to Draco. "Isn't he lovely!"

"He certainly makes good company. What about you - what do you do all day?" finishing off his sandwich, he offered the rest of his crisps to her.

She took one from the packet with the very tips of her fingers and stared at it. "I don't know, really . . . it's not how I thought it would be." She bit off a small bite, licked the salt from her lips, and then blushed, gazing up at him from beneath her dark lashes. "Thank you."

Draco became aware for the first time how comparatively small and fragile she seemed as she sat there beside him. "Which part?"

She gave him a sideways glance. "Everything. Nothing." She sighed again. "I'd like to blame it on everyone else, but I know it's mostly me."

"Sounds like you've been spending time with Hipthripple."

She shook her head slowly. "I have no idea what's going on with Rec. I show up whenever I feel like it, and yet she always seems to know when I'm coming. I don't say much of anything, but she feeds me, makes tea, and then tells me to rest. So far there are no requirements, no lessons- "

It sounded to Draco very much like his early private lessons with the professor, and he said as much to her. He regretted it almost immediately. Her demeanor underwent an instantaneous, dramatic transformation, and he found himself sitting a bit too closely to a very different but extremely familiar Granger: still small and fragile, yes - but also _terrifying_.

She jumped to her feet, hands clenched. "I _knew_ it! I knew it, and I've said all along what utter rubbish this whole Reconciliation thing is! So you did no more work than I did, but somehow you charmed your way into the good graces of the right people and graduated - and not just from the program, but from Hogwarts as well!"

Now completely enraged, she shook a fist at him, and he was suddenly a third year again and watching that same fist travel through the air toward his face as her eyes burned with retribution. He flinched. "That's not what I said at all," he countered, his good mood evaporating. _This_ Granger never ceased to irritate the living shit out of him. "I said-"

"Oh, I know _exactly_ what you said and I'm taking it straight to the _Prophet_; it's time to call the Ministry out on this publicly!"

"You Gryffindors," he spat disgustedly, standing as well so at least he had the advantage of height, "and your bloody pigheadedness! You just keep ramming your heads into the wall until it finally gives way or-"

"Or _what_!" she snapped. "Just because we don't throw our hands up into the air and run at the first sign of trouble doesn't mean-"

He cut her off with a cynical bark of laughter. "Or you _die_ trying to do something that didn't need doing in the first place."

"Is _that_ how you defend your life choices?!"

"We weren't talking about me! We were talking about your incessant need for attention!"

"_Look_." She rounded on him. "My decision to contest the Reconciliation contract has _nothing_ to do with attention. It's a matter of _policy_ reform, and I'll _happily_ bang my head against that wall on _principle_ until I get what I want!"

"Jesus, Granger! I cannot begin to comprehend what goes on in that head of yours; you have _everything_ _going for you_ \- everything! - and yet you manage to find tantrum fodder every _single_ damned day!" He whirled around and began walking, but even his long, angry strides weren't fast enough to outdistance her.

"How dare you!" she ground out between clenched teeth as she jogged to keep up with him. "You know _nothing_ about me!"

"I know _plenty_ about you, and you're no worse off than any of the rest of us. You've lived the last eight years on the front pages; _everyone_ knows your life story." He began ticking off on his fingers, mocking, "Brightest witch of the age. Female member of the Golden Trio. War heroine. Erstwhile girlfriend of a famous Quidditch player. Would-be political activist. Eleven O.W.L.s." Then he stopped abruptly, causing her to run into him.

She pushed away from him and scowled. "Like _The Prophet_ ever got the details right."

"Don't forget I currently reside at your house - already I know more than I'd like about you. Two parents who'd do anything for you. A secure place in either of two worlds. For fuck's sake, you even have a dog who cries when you leave!"

She turned to the river and the punts moving past them. "Yes, well he certainly seems to have found a _new_ best friend." They walked along in silence as the fire crackling between them slowly dissipated. Finally she asked, "What is it with you and melodrama?"

"What?"

Granger rolled her eyes and quoted back, "We Gryffindors either ram our heads into a wall until it gives way or we _die trying_?"

"I meant it metaphorically," he grumbled. By some unspoken agreement they began walking back to the willow and the remains of lunch they'd left there.

She picked up the Pret carrier bag and held it open, pointing imperiously to the sandwich wrappers and crisp packets scattered over the grass, and her resemblance to the she-Granger was so striking that he couldn't have disobeyed had he tried. "I cannot believe you're jealous of the damned dog."

"Shut up, Granger," he retorted - and then, because his mother had raised him to be a gentleman, he took the bag of rubbish from her and tossed it in the nearest bin along the footpath.

She huffed, obviously trying not to smile. "You are _such_ an idiot."

His skin buzzed and his heart raced, but for the first time in Draco's life there was nothing about this confrontation that triggered the panic center of his prodigious brain. In fact, he felt . . . he felt as if he'd been plugged into one of the electric outlets in The Old Vicarage and sparked to _life_. He looked down at Granger, noticing once more how vulnerable she looked at his side, and laughed outright. "I might start taking that as a compliment, you know."

* * *

On the third Saturday morning of every month for as long as she could remember, Jeanne had taken the 6:58 train to Manchester, her chic shopping trolley brimming with groceries and the kinds of little luxuries that rounded the corners of a harsh existence.

Today had been no different; she'd slipped out of Ed's arms at the first sound of the alarm clock, careful not to wake him as she dressed in practical jeans and trainers. Then she was off like a shot to the station and on her way to see Gran: her gran, who'd raised her from infancy and loved her with a fierce, wild love that had defied poverty, rough schooling, and lack of mother, father, and siblings.

Overall, it had been a lovely visit; Gran had been her usual feisty self, arguing that she needed nothing even as she provided a running commentary on the things Jeanne put away in her cupboards, and the weather had cooperated such that they lunched at a local cafe with outdoor seating. In fact, the only blight on the day had been Hermione's absence - for Hermione had never once missed one of these visits during the summer months - and while Jeanne had explained the situation fully, it pained her to see the disappointment in Gran's eyes.

She chewed on this the entire train ride back to Cambridge, finally _forcefully_ changing the course of her thoughts to more positive things.

That evening she came home to a very quiet house - _too_ quiet. She kicked off her trainers and padded down to the kitchen to find Ed in his usual place at this time of day: noodling around with pots and pans and all the other strange things he used to make his delicious meals. But typically there was a delightful ruckus of noise - music playing in the background and her husband singing at the top of his lungs, Badger joining in as he circled the island for scraps. Ed looked up with a grin, and then he put a finger to his lips and beckoned her closer.

"What's- Oooh! Is that pesto?" she whispered as she reached his side. She dipped a finger into the nearest saucepan and brought it to her lips, confirming her guess. "Mmmm. It's a good thing you've worked out for me thus far, but be warned; I'm fully prepared to leave you for one of your sauces at the slightest infraction."

Ed gave a rumble of laughter, swatting her backside in a playful manner and pulling her to his side. "And who do you propose would _cook_ the sauces? Now hush and listen!" He turned down the gas flame under the pesto and checked the contents of a covered pot, then murmured into her hair, "Our girl came home this afternoon."

Jeanne leaned back until she could see Ed's face. "Shut. Up." Suddenly she had a thousand questions. "How did she look! Has she been eating! Did she say anything about working with Hestia! What did she need! What about family dinners! When will she be back!"

"I didn't actually see her," Ed admitted as soon as he could get a word in, "but when Draco and I got back from punting, there was Floo powder hanging in the air."

"Oh," Jeanne sighed, shoulders slumping in disappointment.

"_She came home_, Jeannie - that's an enormous step!"

"But she's not ready to see us." It was her turn to put a finger to _his_ lips. "I get it, Ed; I do. She's hurting, and she needs space and time. What about the boy?" she mused. "Have you pried any details out of him?"

Ed looked as though he was trying not to smile. "_Draco_ was with her all afternoon, as far as I can tell, and I think it would be best for us _not_ to use him as a spy."

"_I_ think it's the very _least_ he could do," she argued.

"If the two of them managed to spend a good part of an afternoon together, it means they're learning to reconcile their past; it means they're growing and _healing_. You _know_ it's true."

"I hate it when you're right."

"But you love me." Ed gave her a boyish grin.

She jabbed her forefinger into his chest. "Fine; _I _love you, _Hermione's_ made a good step, and _the boy_ isn't the brute he used to be."

"She came _home_, Jeannie," he repeated, catching her hand in his and giving it a gentle squeeze. "Best news in a long time, eh?"

Jeanne Granger, beloved wife, mother, oral surgeon, and resident of Cambridge-town, was a highly educated woman. She carried herself with confidence, dressed with simple elegance, and had learned to speak with a respectable lack of accent. But occasionally, within the haven of her home, she lapsed into the dialect of her childhood. That lovely evening, so bright with hope, she could think of only one way to respond to her husband. "_Mint."_


End file.
